


Ennui

by aiIenzo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Character Study, Fake AH Crew, Gavin is a little shit, Multi, Not Abandoned, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 154,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[GTAV: Fake AH Crew]</p><p>Ennui: a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement. </p><p>Here though, in Michael’s penthouse with the world of festering whores and low-brow criminals far beneath him, dredged through the gutters he once called home, he was safe. Here, he was elite. Here, those stars weren’t only tangible, they were accessible. And Ray wanted all of it, he wanted to claim this city, just as Michael had done, as Geoff had done; he wanted to drag those stars down until they gave up their secrets of being so brightly wound in the night that everyone knew their names.</p><p>He smiled, willing to dissect Michael's mysteries later, when he had time. "Tell me what it's like then, to be like you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by GTAV and Fake AH Crew madness. It’ll be a slow burn, filled with guns, violence, blood, and drugs. A little heavy, a little dark. Tune in and be patient, please.

Someone had keyed his car again.

Ray bent down with a sigh, running careful fingers over the deep scratches that marred the paint, spelling out a crude explicative. The noises of traffic and busy streets muffled the scrape of his sneakers as he crunched the gravel beneath him, twisting his body around to scan the sidewalks. They were dirty, covered in slap-dash graffiti and littered with bits of trash that had become entangled in the sharp fencing. Small plants had found the cracks in the concrete and were pushing through to the light, making the area look weedy and unkempt. But other than the two homeless men that frequented the dumpster every morning, Ray couldn’t see any other immediate signs of life.

He stood, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and inspecting the rest of his car for more vandalism. The emptiness of his street was a blessing, really, because the scratches were clearly done by a junior gang, the members of which were usually armed without the slightest knowledge of how to accurately use a firearm. Ray wasn’t sure what he could’ve done in a confrontation anyway.

He’d let it go, as he always did.

His keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket, and his car door made a hideous creak when he pried it open. He grimaced, but shut it out of his mind. He didn’t have money for payments on a new one. He could barely pay for the gas and upkeep to keep this one running.

His apartment complex looked even more rundown from the outside, and the grime on his windshield didn’t help. One story, winding paths to doorways in various states of decay. He averted his eyes and started his car, shifting into gear with the clear intent of focusing on work, and only work, until he could go home and start again. His mind wandered to the large chunk of cash he had, wrapped in a bag and hidden in the reservoir of his toilet. That was his way out. The small bubble of hope that kept his heart from sinking into his stomach, swallowed by the shit life that he lived. He’d have money to move to the next city, where crime wasn’t running rampant and unchecked. Where police ran the streets, instead of vigilantes with guns trying to make a dent in the gangs that polluted the livelihood around them. Where he could find a decent job, find a decent life.

Thoughts and hopes preoccupied his mind so heavily as he pulled into his usual parking spot that it took him several moments to notice the flashing lights, blinking in time to his heartbeat. Red, blue, red, blue. They reflected off the signs advertising 2 for 1 hot dog specials and discounts on energy drinks for every gallon of gas you bought. He stepped out of his car and felt the glass beneath his feet, heard the sad flap of caution tape next to him. An officer was approaching, his eyes sunken and his uniform disheveled. There were remains of food on his shirt, and his hand was already resting on the pistol at his side.

 “Sir? This is a crime scene, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.” 

Ray scanned the area in front of him, looking for familiar faces. His boss was huddled on the back of an ambulance, a blanket around his shoulders and his eyes focused on the sad remains of his gas station. Ray followed the gaze, finding the broken windows where glass had shot out as far as ten feet. Beyond that, he could see the wreckage of food and toiletries that covered the floor, broken, smashed, and ground into the linoleum.

 “Sir?”

 Ray sucked in his breath and found his composure, meeting the officer’s eyes and trying not to act too shocked. In reality, he wasn’t. The only thing running through his mind was how his paycheck was definitely going to be late. And so was his rent.

 “Yeah, sorry. I…uh, I work here.”

His voice sounded hoarse. He wasn’t sure if it was from disappointment, a smidgen of fear, or the very good possibility that he hadn’t spoken to another human being since he had left work two days ago. He didn’t get out much, not when every step he took outside was another step closer to being mugged, or worse.

“Well, not anymore you don’t,” the officer replied, and it was so desensitized, so passive, that Ray felt his blood boil from blatant disregard. “That fellow over there, he was here when it happened. I’ll let you through so you can talk to him.” 

He gestured carelessly to Ray’s boss, Joseph, still wrapped in a shock blanket. Ray pushed past the overweight officer and lifted the caution tape, ignoring the glass scattered over the asphalt. He faltered, however, when his foot struck something that made an odd tinkling sound, like the windchimes his mother used to have. A bullet casing rolled and bounced over the glass in front of him, chiming and commanding attention. Ray watched it for a moment, his heart rate rising just slightly, before he heard Joseph call to him.

“Ray!” he exclaimed as Ray approached him, placing a heavy hand on Ray’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you didn’t show up early, kid!

"What happened?” Ray asked quietly, looking the old man up and down. “You’re not hurt? There were shots fired?”

The old man broke out in a grin and hopped from the ambulance with surprising agility, a sparkle in his eyes that Ray hadn’t seen before. He leaned in close enough that Ray could smell the stench of his dipping tobacco.

“You’ll be damn right there were. I got him too, the fucker. He robbed me blind, but I got a shot in as he was high tailing his ass out the front door!” Joseph cackled. “That damn fool had a fucking pump action on him, and he never even used it. Pussy. Probably his first job! But I got him good.”

He rammed his fingers into Ray’s chest to emphasize his words, “Pop, pop, pop!”

Ray batted the hand away gently and rubbed the sore spot. “You killed him?”

Joseph’s smile faded slightly, but the sparkle in his eyes remained. “No. Think I got him in the arm. I was aiming for his heart but I’m a bit outta practice. Fuck, I should get robbed more often, get some good target practice in!”

He laughed, but Ray’s disapproval was plain as he replied softly, “Don’t say that. This is awful, what’s happened. Look at the fucking store, Jo. What happens now?”

Joseph turned and examined the store, as if his high was finally fading and he was seeing what Ray saw: unemployment.

“Ah, well, insurance will cover that,” he waved it off, but there was a distinct lack of certainty in his voice, and Ray rubbed his eyes furiously, trying to figure out what to say in the severity of the situation. “It might be a bit before the claim goes through, though.”

“And me, Jo? What do I do?”

His manager studied him for a moment, sucking on his teeth and making the gray hairs in his beard shimmer in the police lights. “Well, my brother has his station over in Phoenix, I could see if he’s up for a transfer.”

Ray shook his head, swallowing the frustration that was trying to rise through his throat. “That's a whole state over, there's no way I can afford the move. I can’t leave Los Santos until I have more money.”

Joseph shrugged. “Try unemployment money then. The government will pay you when shit like this happens, right? They’ll send you checks?”

“Jo! That’ll take fucking months, I need to…” Ray paused, catching his breath and running his hands through his hair. “I need something immediately, man. I’m not well off.”

Jo had no reply, which didn’t surprise Ray in the slightest. He felt the sickness rise in his stomach, but pushed it down. Together, they turned to watch the cops in silence as they picked through the building, talking amongst themselves, their badges glittering in the red and blue lights.

 

///

 

He drove for a long time, an hour, two, it hardly mattered to him. Finally, when the sun began to bake him in his car, he stopped at a liquor store, his mind occupied by cursing the robber and fantasizing about finding him curled up on the street, bleeding out and begging forgiveness. Ray would return the stolen money, they’d get the station back up, and they could go back to–

Back to life. Waiting to get robbed again. Waiting to hear customers’ stories of the latest murders, the last stick up, the epic shootout with gangs and cops down by the pier.

He had to get out, didn’t he? Why was he still here? What was he waiting for? He had more than enough money to get back to his parents house and start over again, deal with the shame of his failure.

A small group of men were huddled in the back aisles as Ray walked in, the bell chiming a defiant happiness in the dim light of the store. He shot a glance back at them, but they ignored him, clearly focused on doing lines of coke off one of the empty shelves. His battered Converse scuffed quietly on the dirty floor, and he approached the counter with a dignified depression, mind set on becoming so drunk that he might, for a moment, be happy.

He owner handed him two bottles of Jack, totaling his price in broken English, and Ray handed him a wad of bills without any real heart or regret. He was already feeling numb, and the alcohol in his hands remained unopened.

Armed with his brown bag, he drove home, not bothering to lock his door when he parked. When they keyed his car tonight, at least the alarm wouldn’t wake him out of his drunken stupor. He rounded the fence, eyes set on the small alley that would take him to his room, until a dark red spot on the ground caught his eye. He hesitated, then bent down to examine it. It wasn’t unusual to find blood on the ground in his complex, but it wasn’t a comfort, either. It was several drops worth, an injury, maybe a nosebleed. Likely a fight had broken out while he was gone.

Of course, no cops showed up for something as lowly as domestic violence, or a gang fight. Only big things drew their attention now.

He sighed and kept moving, past large green doors that led the way to his own home. Some of them were cracked, and loud bass blared out of them along with the strong scent of bad weed. A young couple was arguing, a man was yelling. A car backfired in the distance, and gunshots were heard several streets down.

It was the soundtrack to his life hear, and Ray hardly noticed anymore.

He stopped outside his own door, his hands fishing in his pockets for his keys. He pulled them out, then promptly dropped them as he set eyes on his doorknob, completely ripped away from the door and hanging by a hinge. The entirety of the knob was streaked in deep red blood that drew his eyes down, where a small puddle of it was already staining the bottom of his shoes.

His first initial instinct was to call the cops, but he entertained the thought for only a few moments. They’d never come. Not here. A four bedroom home up in the hills, sure, they’d be there in two minutes, but here… They might as well hang up on him.

He swallowed, trying to rid his heart from his throat, and pushed open the door. The bag in his hand quaked as he shook, but he couldn’t remember how to operate the correct muscles to put it on the ground. He was on autopilot, finding the weak trail of blood on his floor and following it through the hallway. Each step he took felt weightless, as if he were observing another person move his own body, drift him carefully past the drops of red and down the darkened hall.

His bathroom door was wide open, and Ray could see the shadows of movement against the harsh, yellow light. There was a clang, a curse, and the sound of his medicine cabinet being slammed so hard it bounced back open.

He couldn’t stop walking now. He couldn’t even feel his feet beneath him, the fading carpet may have been air, or needles. He didn’t stop moving until his body blocked the doorway, casting his own shadow against the wall behind him.

The bathroom was a smear of blood; the walls, the floor, the tub. Pills were knocked into the sink, and the floor was a scattering of towels. One end of a bandage dangled sadly across it, stained red in places and soaked in others. The other end was being wrapped around the thick muscle of a right arm, where a large slash was bleeding profusely. Brown eyes shot up to meet Ray’s, and he had only a mere moment to take in a light complexion, curls, and a strong body to match a strong presence, before the man nodded to Ray’s rapidly loosening grip that held the bagged alcohol.

“Hey man. Is that for me?”


	2. 02

For the first time in his life, Ray’s wit failed him.

He stared at the man in front of him, who seemed unfazed at their peculiar situation and continued to wrap his arm, winding the stretch of brown fabric around the wound as the blood began to soak through. Ray was vaguely aware that it needs stitches, and that brief moment of clarity is all it took for the bottles of Jack Daniels to slip from his grasp.

They didn't break, they didn't shatter and spray and pool across the floor to mingle with the blood, but the heavy sound made Ray wince, and he jumped back in a slight shock. The man eyed him, bemused, and gestured to the bottle.

“Hand me one of those, will you?”

Honestly, Ray could think of at least six other things he should be doing other than helping the man that just broke into his home, but the bizarre situation and the blatant, gracious fact that he hasn’t had his head beat in seemed somehow promising.

He reached down and grabbed one of the bottles, the weight feeling heavier than it had before, and handed it over, trying desperately to think of something to say as he ignored the tremor in his fingers. He was waiting for fear to creep in, but it remained at bay as the stranger in his bathroom ripped the plastic off, removed the cork with his teeth, and immediately downed a large swig.

He made a deep, appreciative sigh through a small wince of aftertaste, and before Ray could prepare himself, he was dousing the wound with splashes from the bottle. There was a barely retrained hiss of pain, and when the stranger deems the soaked wound and dressing satisfactory, he brought the bottle back to his lips.

“I, uh…” Ray was startled to hear his own voice. Reality was starting to set in again, but only half of him was there. His lungs and vocals were working, but his mind was running on overdrive to catch up. “I think you’re supposed to clean it first, then dress it.”

The stranger looked up at him, a heavy brow helping to form a frown on his freckled face, half hidden behind tight curls. “Well you should have shown up before I wrapped it, then. Besides, it keeps the bandage sanitary right?”

It sounded like a legitimate question, and Ray was certain he was losing his mind. He took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. What were you supposed to do when you were in danger? Stay hidden? Well, that was moot. Assess your surroundings? Ray looked around the bathroom, his eyes darting quickly to avoid giving away any point of focus. However, a gleam of light caught his attention, and his gaze raked over to the corner, where a pump action shotgun was braced against the wall.

“Hold up,” he said, before common sense could win out over rash comprehension. “How did you get that wound? Gunshot wound, right?”

The stranger said nothing, but tensed slightly on the edge of the bathtub. His fingers twitched, and Ray registered that, but his blind anger and disbelief won out over concern for his own safety.

“Were you the cunt that robbed the gas station over on the 76?”

The man stood up and was a foot away from Ray’s chest in a mere heartbeat. He was no taller than Ray, but the air around him seemed to shrink at the very notion of this man’s anger. He was dangerous, and there was electricity in his eyes as he moved closer, until Ray was forced up against the wall to avoid being touched.

“What’s it to you, man?” he snarled, and the deep quiet of his voice could have been heard for miles. “Was the guy at the counter your boyfriend? I swear I didn’t rough him up too much.”

Ray could literally see his own death, laid about before him as the next words escaped his mouth. This was it, he couldn’t take it back, and he was going to die. “From what I could tell you didn’t rough him up at all. 'Ran like a pussy,' is how he described you, I think.“

The expression in the stranger’s eyes changed, there was a quick hint of amusement that flashed through them, and the dark danger that encompassed him seemed to lessen slightly. Ray held his breath, hoping, _praying_ that he hadn’t just signed his own death warrant.

But the man eased off, a quick sigh escaping him as he rubbed the back of his neck. The tension in the air dissipated as quickly as it came. "You’re right, I did. Wasn’t my fucking fault though, I didn’t have any shells.”

Ray breathed a sigh of relief, testing the waters now that he was more confident he wasn’t going to feel a fist connect with his jaw. Not immediately, anyway. “Are you telling me you went to rob a store without any actual ammunition?”

The man gave a growl of frustration and started sorting through the pill bottles that were piled in the sink. “It’s not my fault, I just said that. My idiot fucking friend packed my bag, and I’m going to kill him. Putting Gavin on gear duty, fucking great idea…!” He trailed off, examining each bottle before tossing them back in the sink, frustrated. “This is your place, right? Do you have any painkillers? You may not believe it, but this actually really fucking hurts.”

Ray used his shoe to carefully nudge the piles of bloody towels into the corner. “I’ve got some questions first.”

The stranger sat back down on the edge of the tub and took another long swig of Jack, closing his eyes and biting his lip in pain afterwards. “Alright, I guess I owe you that, considering I broke into your apartment and bloodied up the place.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way,” Ray mumbled, realizing that there was no way he’d be getting his deposit back. “Why my place? I’ve never fucking seen you in my life, why did you break in here?”

The robber cracked his neck and sighed a bit, looking more at ease as the alcohol started to set in. “Ah, I have a friend that lives a couple of doors down from you. He runs a small black market arms deal, and he agreed to be a safehouse. The fucker bailed and wasn’t home though, and he’s got a mean ass dog that’ll tear you to pieces if you try and break in. Your place was the first I found that was empty.”

Ray took a few cautious steps forward and picked up a small medicine case he kept in the cabinet. It was plain and black, and had been all but ignored by the robber’s mad scramble for supplies. He wiped a bit of blood off of it with one of discarded towels.

“You know, I worked at that gas station.”

“No shit?” the man replied, and he gave a genuine grin, as though Ray’s misfortune had brightened his day. “Guess you’ll be job hunting now, huh?”

Ray’s atmosphere darkened, but he said nothing, opening his bag and pulling out a small bottle, shaking the final two pills out of it and into his hand. He passed them over.

“Tramadol,” he supplied, though it hardly seemed the guy cared as he swallowed them with another large swish of booze. “And I’m glad you think that wrecking my life is so funny.”

The man smiled over the rim of his bottle.

“I rob your employer, break into your house, fuck it up to high heaven, and you’re helping to patch me up? If your boss called _me_ a pussy, I can't imagine what he calls you.” Ray shifted uncomfortable, and the guy chuckled. “What’s your name, anyway, tough guy?”

“Ray,” Ray answered immediately, and was horrified at how weak his voice sounded. He cleared his throat. “Ray Narvaez... Jr.”

“Oh, a daddy’s boy? That’s sweet. I killed my dad when I was about…” he stopped for a minute, his face thoughtful. “Thirteen, maybe? Oh, who remembers.”

Ray was completely baffled as to how to reply, so he fell back on his defense of withdrawing himself. He cracked his knuckles nervously and sidestepped away from the door. “Look, it’s been a real pleasure having you here…?”

He paused, looking up with what he hoped was a prompting expression. The redhead took a small swig of the bottle before responding. “Michael.”

Ray paused again, curious. “Really, Michael? No code name, an alias maybe?”

A true grin broke out on the strangers face, and his shoulders shook slightly as he laughed. It was just then that Ray noticed the littering of tattoos across his arms.

“I’m a criminal man, not a fucking undercover agent. Besides, no one here gives a shit about keeping their identity hidden; it’s not like the cops here keep records. Not anymore.”

Ray, feeling stupid all over again, tried to pick up where he left off. “Right. Well, it’s been great, getting to know you and your…dad story…but I really have to clean this place up if I want to actually live in it anymore. So… you probably know where the door is. If you don’t, just, you know, follow your blood stains.”

There was a very pregnant pause before Michael put down his bottle and stood, cracking his neck again and wincing slightly.

“Alright, Ray, I get the hint. Thanks for the booze, the bandage, and the meds. Oh, and also–” Ray’s entire body froze on the spot as Michael pulled a semi automatic from his back pocket and pointed it directly at his head. “–I’ll be thanking you for that wad of cash you’re keeping in the toilet.”

The only sound in the room for a split second was Michael flicking the safety off as he stared dead into Ray’s eyes. The air was heavy and full of fire.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ray spat, before he could help himself. “You just robbed a gas station, you’re going to rob me too?!”

“Yeah, duh, that’s what I do. It’s an art, honestly, and one you should be respecting right now, before I’m scraping your brains off the bottom of my shoes when I leave.”

He was calm and collected, but Ray’s insides were alight. He wasn’t afraid, he was _furious_. For the first time in months he could feel something other than a shallow depression, and while his body wouldn’t move, his mind was racing, trying to figure out how to turn this situation to his favor before Michael took his only chance of a happy ending.

“How the fuck did you even know it was there?!” he growled, deep and low, but Michael was unfazed, that agonizingly calm grin spreading across his features.

“You’re not as clever as you’d like to think. It’s the first place I look, every time.”

“I need that money!” Ray shouted, and Michael’s mood turned sour. He took another quick step forward and pressed the barrel against Ray’s forehead, the cold metal a stark contrast to Ray’s rapidly rising body temperature.

“Everyone needs money,” Michael spat, grinding the gun so hard against Ray’s head he was sure he’d bruise. “What makes you so fucking special, daddy’s boy?”

There was a crash outside of the bathroom, and both men immediately forgot themselves and looked towards the source of the sound. Someone had busted through the front door, and the sounds of wood slamming against the wall were drowned out by furious yells.

“Michael! Michael you fucking prick, I know you’re here. Come out and play, baby!”

“Fuck!” Michael cursed, a harsh whisper, and grabbed Ray by the shirt and dragged him into the corner next to the bathroom door. Ray’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure it would likely break his ribs. Michael’s face was a mix of terror and determination, a serious expression he hadn’t even thought to give to Ray’s earlier defiance. Whoever the man outside was, Ray realized with a jolt, he was exceedingly dangerous. Dangerous enough for the robber, Michael, to be afraid.

“Stay here, and don’t move,” Michael whispered to him, emphasizing his words with a forceful shove into Ray’s chest. “This guy _will_ kill you.”

“Will you not?” Ray muttered, weak and defenseless, his limbs feeling numb and useless. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. But his words fell on deaf ears as Michael positioned himself against the opposite corner, pressing his body against the wall with his pistol held at the ready.

The crashing sounds had faded from the hallway, now they heard only careful steps mixed with a horrible low voice, singing, “ _Michael, Michael, come out and see me_.”

The footsteps were right outside the door before Ray could properly realize he was panicking. He was very likely going to die. His body would lie here for days in a pool of blood, and no one would know, no one would care until his stench became unbearable for his neighbors. He could hear his blood pumping, feel the tingling in his arms as his body tried to condition itself to the fear. If he could get control of this situation, he might survive. Maybe, just maybe, he could try to run.

He looked over at Michael, who was poised for offense, his eyes alight and a sheen layer of sweat beginning to form on his brow. He stole a quick glance at Ray, read him like a book, and gave the briefest shake of his head.

_Don’t run._

Ray took a breath, and waited.

He could only see a split second of the intruder, a heavyset body stepping cautiously into the bathroom, before Michael’s hand flew out and pistol whipped him directly across the face.

The man cursed, his hands flying up to grab his face and his weapon temporarily indisposed. Michael made a lunge for it, but the intruder was fast, recovering almost immediately and pulled his weapon out of reach. He was partially blinded, blood flowing into his eyes from where Michael had cracked him, but he managed to find Michael’s arm, pulled him forward, and elbowed him hard in the side of the head.

Michael flew backwards, his gun flying from his hands before coming to rest in the corner where Ray stood, immobile and completely disregarded. The man was wiping the blood from his eyes and cursing.

“You fuck! You dirty fuck! I’m going to skin you alive and hang your body downtown, let everyone see you, you _fuck!_ ”

He advanced on Michael, who was still recovering, his eyesight cloudy and disoriented. The man was already raising his arm, his weapon pointed at Michael’s heart. The intent was clear.

Ray picked up the pistol without meaning to. Split seconds felt like minutes, and the tense moments were his hands scrambled to find a hold on the gun that would save his life passed so slowly he was sure that Michael must already be dead, that the murderer would be rounding on him. He had never been shot before. He was convinced he was about to find out how it felt.

But the only shots that rang out were his own. The first was the hardest, and pulling the trigger felt like it took more strength than he had ever had to find. The deafening _clack!_  overpowered the soft sound of bullet meeting flesh. The man jerked backwards in surprise, shock written in clear lines across his face as he turned to see Ray for the first time. He raised his pistol, a .45, but Ray didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He fired again, the shot ringing in his ears as the sound reverberated around them, echoing off the walls and bringing agony to his head. His arm was numb, the thick and heavy sensation from firing coursing through it unnoticed as he released the third bullet, easily following the path of the first and second and finding soft flesh to imbed in.

He fired two more shots in quick succession before he found the self control to halt his fingers. The man was staggering, his expression of surprise unchanged as he hit the wall behind him with a sickening slap before crumbling into a heap on the floor. Trickles of blood were streaming from his body, joining together and creating a large pool of hot red that was slowly creeping out onto the tile. His eyes were vacant, staring ahead, unseeing.

Ray slowly lowered the gun. His ears were ringing horribly, and for a split moment, he was sure he had gone deaf. He stared at the body before him, his shock coming in waves with each new heartbeat, slowly convincing himself that the man before him was dead, and that Ray was still alive. He was  _alive._

There was a groan of protest, and Ray’s wide eyes immediately focused on Michael, who was trying to stay conscious. Ray stumbled over to him, his feet failing beneath him as he crashed unceremoniously to the floor next to Michael, scrambling to pick himself up and relocate the pistol. The only thing that had saved his life.

When he met Michael’s eyes, he was met with another shock to find the redhead smiling at him.

“You’re a fucking amazing shot, you know that? All five, right in zone. Bet you could’ve emptied the whole magazine into him. Amazing…” he mumbled the last word, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

Ray shook him. “Michael!” There was panic in his voice, and Ray didn’t have the dignity to try and drown it out. “Tell me what to do, what do I do?!”

Michael lived this life, knew how to cover his tracks, and Ray was latching onto anything that could ground him. Michael, the fucking dirtbag that had been in the middle of robbing him, he'd know what to do. 

Michael’s eyes snapped forward again, and Ray could see the effort in his face as he tried to focus. “Take the guns and the money,” he muttered, and his words were slurring together. Ray knew that was bad. He couldn’t remember why, couldn’t remember what to do. What was he suppose to do? Was it a concussion? Michael swallowed hard and continued. “Get a car and take me down to Idlewood. 642 Bradbury. Tell them not to…”

But he was gone, and Ray couldn’t shake him awake. His panic was trying to take over, but he swallowed, removed his hands from Michael’s shirt, and tried to steady himself. Five seconds. Five seconds, and two deep breaths.

_One._

The blood was seeping across the floor. Focusing on it made the air in his lungs feel heady and thick.

_Two._

He looked past it to the scan the tile, finding Michael’s initial spoils from the gas station in a messenger bag tucked under the toilet. He tried to center his thoughts on what to do with what was around him. How he could utilize it. 

_Three._

The .45 in the dead man’s hands was held limply, Ray could remove it.

_Four._

The cops may be on their way, they may not. He couldn’t be here when they showed up, he knew that. Association was all they needed to shoot him on sight.

_Five._

He stood up. His hands were steady and his breathing was reliable, calm, and assured. His heart continued to pound, but he assessed his situation. Michael was a criminal, but he hadn’t shot him. He meant to rob him, but he caused him no harm. He even tried to protect Ray from someone who hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger. Did Ray owe him something for that?

He grabbed the messenger bag and unhooked it, glancing at the piles of cash inside. It wasn’t much, but it would be a nice edition to what Ray had saved up. Enough to get him somewhere else, maybe that transfer to Phoenix. Surely Michael would give him a cut of it for saving his life? Or would he still intend to murder him?

Ray glanced down at the figure passed out beneath him. Michael hadn’t seemed intent on killing, he only wanted the money. He was dangerous, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be reasoned with. He said there were others at Idlewood, how would they feel if he showed up dragging what could easily be mistaken as Michael’s dead body to their door? If they gave him time to explain, they might be grateful. They might not.

Ray made a split second decision and tossed the top of the reservoir to the ground, barely wincing at the sound of shattering porcelain. His money, nearly two grand of it, lay safe in a bag, submerged in the water. He grabbed it and stuffed it in with the other cash. Then, with only slight hesitation, he shook the dead man’s hand loose of the handgun, stumbled for a moment until he found the safety, and placed it in the bag as well along with Michael’s semi automatic and grabbed the shotgun from the wall.

He hurried out of the bathroom and through the house, ignoring the wreckage of his door, and grabbed his car keys from the sidewalk where he had dropped them. His mind was finally as focused as his body and he moved efficiently, running on pure adrenaline and mild panic. He wrenched open the door to his car and placed the bag and gun in his passenger seat before opening the back door and rushing back inside. No neighbors were peering from their windows, no approaching sounds of sirens. For the first time, Ray was grateful of where he lived, that gunfire and yelling were commonplace and no real cause for alarm.

Michael hadn’t moved, and it took a great effort on Ray’s part to even lift up the man’s shoulders enough to drag him through his house. Michael’s body was limp, dead weight, and Ray was sweating by the time he managed to get him into the back seat of the car, lying him down against the cushion and pushing his feet up out of the way of the door. He was aware of two pairs of eyes peering at him from a distance, the two bums that frequented the dumpster, but he ignored them as he got in the drivers side. It was too late to regret now, too late to second guess his decision.

He might have peeled out of the parking lot a little too quickly, a little too loudly, and he might have speed down the streets, ignoring any and all distractions. He hardly remembered what traffic lights meant, or what was required of him. His eyes were focused on his destination, but he was unseeing, the world around him suddenly so dull, lifeless. A man was dead because of him, and a criminal, quite possibly a murderer, was unconscious in his back seat, waiting to be driven to safety. He was operating solely on adrenaline.

His entire world had been ripped from him. The life he had known was shattered.

And for a brief, wild moment, Ray smiled.


	3. 03

By the time Ray reached Idlewood, his nerves were beginning to overpower his adrenaline. He found himself once again grateful for the law enforcement’s lack of involvement, as the mess he'd left back at his apartment would easily be blamed on him, the lease holder. He probably wouldn’t even get a trial. Hell, he’d be lucky if the cops actually arrested him instead of beating him to death on sight.

He turned onto Bradbury and peered out at the addresses adoring the walls, searching for 642. Several numbers had fallen from their buildings, swallowed into the clusters of weeds beneath grimy windows. The buildings along this street were mainly industrial, with an odd bunching of houses mixed in, looking decrepit and abandoned. He slowed the car as his destination came into sight, the address he sought plastered across the top of a large brick building, and a small glass door was the only window he could see that hadn’t been boarded up.

Ray stopped the car in the shadows of a lackluster tree, casting his eyes nervously towards the building. He couldn’t imagine anyone waiting inside, and the empty, silent streets only helped to reinforce his trepidation. As he stepped out, the creek of his door echoing down the wide, abandoned street, he chanced another glance through the back window at Michael. The redhead was still knocked out cold, and his lips had parted slightly as his chest rose and fell steadily.

Ray hesitated, wondering if he should try and wake Michael to help him get inside, but the eerie quiet of his surroundings put him on edge, and he wanted to make as little noise as possible. He left him there, sprawled across the back seat, and approached the stairs, feeling his heartbeat a little more prominently than he would have liked. There were boot prints, Ray noticed, in the soft layer of dirt leading up to the door before disappearing at the top of the steps. He swallowed as he reached the top, bracing himself and raising his fist to give a cautious, barely-there knock.

No answer. Ray scuffed his shoes on the pavement beneath him, still entirely unsure of what to do. Should he drag Michael up here, let them see what Ray was here for? Would they answer the door, otherwise? Was anyone even inside? Michael's mental state was shot to hell before he passed out, and it was likely that he rambled off the wrong address. Should he just drop Michael’s body off, let the guy find his own way back once he returned to consciousness?

The thought struck him as oddly sad, and he banished the idea without any real consideration. Besides, he wanted a cut of the money, and if he left Michael here without all of it, he was sure Michael would find him and get it back. More violently than before, if necessary.

He turned back to look at his car, suddenly nervous that he had come up here by himself. Nervous that Michael would be waking up any minute; knockouts generally didn’t last long. What if he climbed into the front seat and took off with the car, the money? What if this was just a useless, abandoned building, and Michael had been tricking him? Ray would have no home, no car, and no livelihood. And banishment to the streets was worse than a death sentence.

His thoughts had begun to race so quickly that he didn't immediately react when he heard the door open behind him. By the time his brain clicked into response and told him to turn around, there was already a gun at his head and an arm around his neck. It was strong, and the voice it belonged to was deep and terrifying.

“Answer quickly, and I might not carve that pretty face right off your skull. What’s your name, and why are you here?”

Ray gasped as the thick arm tightened around his neck, but he didn’t dare raise his hands to try and loosen it. He struggled to swallow before answering, feeling the blood pounding in his ears.

“Ray! My name is Ray. I have your friend, Michael, he’s in my back seat, he–”

The gun was pressed harder into him, making his headache roar back to life. He grimaced, trying to shake away the white spots that were filtering his eye sight.

“Why isn’t he up here himself?” The voice demanded, yanking Ray back a bit for good measure.

“He’s unconscious!” Ray answered quickly, afraid that he would pass out before he could explain himself. His fingers were clenching and flexing at his sides, and he finally made a grab for the arm around his throat as he gasped, “He was hiding in my apartment after he robbed the gas station! Some guy came in after him and tried to kill him!” His voice was going hoarse and he clawed frantically at the man’s arm. His captor seemed unfazed. “He knocked Michael out and I shot him. Michael told me to take him–” he struggled to breath, his vision going white, “–take him here!”

There was a moment of silence before the arm around him slackened just enough for him to get a proper breath. “He’s alive?”

“Yes!” Ray gasped. “Please, I don’t mean any harm, I’m just trying to get him back to someone who can help him. He’s been shot. It’s not serious, but it needs medical attention.” He swallowed, and it hurt more than he ever could have imagined.

The man loosened his grip even more, but Ray’s hands still remained firmly planted on his arm, trying to pry it away without seeming dangerous. The gun was still burrowing into his skull.

“Who are you associated with?” The voice asked, and Ray faltered.

“I’m not… I’m not associated with anyone. I worked at that fucking gas station for fuck’s sake!”

“You the one who shot him?”

“ _No!_ ” Ray choked, feeling his anger and irritation rise up inside of him. “I saved his fucking life, actually, so I’d appreciate it if you would get the fuck off of me!”

The man released his neck, but held the gun against Ray’s head and grabbed his arms roughly in the other hand, pulling Ray back inside the building.

“Jack, Gav, Michael’s in the car. Go get him. Keep your eyes out.”

Two figures ran past Ray, a tall, scrawny looking young guy and a thicker man with a heavy beard. Ray’s alarm was rapidly rising as they rushed past, not even bothering to glance at him. How many people were here? What would they do with him until Michael woke? What kind of people were they? He chanced a look around, but found very little to ease his discomfort. The walls were clean but bare, and he could feel smooth concrete beneath his feet. It looked to be a form of foyer, hallways jutting down both sides, with a large main hall blocked by imposing double doors. His captor realized immediately what Ray was doing and jerked him back around, keeping Ray’s eyesight focused on the front door and preventing him from sight seeing.

“Can you let me go?” Ray asked, weakly. “I’m not armed.”

“Not on your life,” the man chuckled.

There was a loud bang of wood on concrete, the sound of doors being flung open, and Ray’s heart was again in his throat. There was a new voice that accompanied the crash, a hollow, cracked dialect, quite like the voice of a man suffering a hangover.

“What’s going on?”

The words accompanied the rapid footsteps that had proceeded into the foyer, intent and purposeful, and it betrayed the calm in the man’s voice. Ray tried to turn and look, but his captor held him at bay, bruising his fingers into Ray’s arm as he spoke.

“This guy just showed up, says Michael’s unconscious in the back seat of his car.”

“Really?” The figure stepped into Ray’s view. He was wearing an expensive suit, complete with bow-tie, though the untidy mess of facial hair negated any professional manner the attire could have given him. There was a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his eyes looked perpetually tired. Tattoos ran across every inch of exposed skin, and he peered at Ray with a piqued sort of interest that barely shone through a day of boredom. “Tie him up please, Ryan.”

“Wait-!”

But the man holding him, Ryan, was already dragging him backwards down one of the hallways and into a separate room, the clang of a metal door sounding far too finalized for Ray’s liking. He let himself be pushed into a creaking wooden chair and tried to put up as little resistance as possible while Ryan grabbed a length of thin cord and proceeded to tie his arms to the chair behind him. He was not gentle, and Ray knew there would be blood before those cords came off again.

The light was bright in the room, revealing empty walls, intentionally similar to the black slate of the foyer. A small medical table with an additional chair were the only furniture in the room other than Ray's seat, and the table was covered with a thin sheet that looked uncomfortably pristine. With a heart-stopping jolt of realization, Ray tried to prepare himself for the inevitable interrogation, praying that they wouldn't deem it necessary to uncover all the little tools hidden underneath that innocent sheet.

Ryan finished up behind him just as the tuxedo’d man entered the room, movements easy and practiced. Ray could see him better now in the brighter light, and tried to take in as much of him as possible, hoping to get a read on how to behave. The glass of whiskey, amber and intimidating, was still cradled in his tattooed hands, providing a perfect match to his demeanor. Underneath tired eyes was a handsome face, half hidden by a short beard and goatee. This man was approaching his 40’s, and was very clearly the man in charge.

“You want me in here, Geoff?” Ryan asked, and Ray shivered, terrified.

Geoff shrugged, making a carefree expression. “Sure. More the merrier, right?” He held out his glass, which Ryan took from him immediately before retreating several steps back. Ray glanced at him for the first time, taking in a large, muscled body, sharp eyes, and an obvious spark of intellect that encompassed him in all aspects, even the way he moved. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and Ray felt the hairs on his neck stand up the longer he looked at him. Geoff was in charge, but Ryan was the man to fear. The muscle. The man to do the dirty work.

Geoff pulled a second chair from a far corner, placing it backwards a few feet in front of Ray and straddling it casually. Ray tried to look as calm as possible, but the color drained from his face as Geoff pulled out a switchblade and flicked it open easily, an extension of his own hand. He placed his arms over the back of the chair, facing Ray, and rested his head upon them, switchblade dangling from his fingers as a smile crossed his face.

“Hi,” he grinned, voice full of both innocence and malice.

Ray swallowed, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the glinting blade.

“Hey. You uh, you really don’t need to use that.”

Ryan cut in immediately, “Just answer his questions,” but Geoff was still smiling, never tearing his gaze from Ray’s face.

“You do know how an interrogation works, don’t you?”

“From experience? No.”

Ray was inwardly cursing himself. Words were pouring from him like he had no self control. For him, his wit was usually a good thing, but now, his life depended on how playful a man with a switchblade was feeling at any given moment.

But Geoff was still smiling, a weak, tired smile, but a smile that reached his eyes nonetheless. “What’s your name?”

“Ray Narvaez, Jr. I worked at that gas station that Michael robbed–”

He was interrupted by the door opening once more, the bearded man Ray had seen running to get Michael had stuck his head in, his eyes glossing over Ray before landing on Geoff. His glasses shimmered in the bright light and Ray couldn’t read his expression.

“Michael’s fine. He’s still knocked out but should be up any minute. There’s a pretty bad cut on his arm but I’m about to stitch him up.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Geoff responded lightly, his eyes never leaving Ray’s and waiting to speak again until the man had disappeared, and the door shut loudly behind him.

“So, you worked at the station, huh? We lost radio contact with Michael right after the initial stickup. Tell me, Ray, why did he end up with you, instead of at our safe-house?”

Geoff’s tone was accusatory, but there was a slight hint of curiosity. The shimmer in his eyes belied Geoff’s nature, and compassion radiated from him, despite what he tried to portray. Ray could get out of here alive, as long as he told the truth. But was the truth believable? He shot a glance towards the door, praying Michael would come through it and back him up.

If Michael even wanted to.

Ray swallowed again, his throat aching. He needed water so badly.

“He said the, uh, the guy at the safe-house bailed. That he couldn’t get in with the dog there, so he broke into my apartment. He was patching himself up when I got there.”

“And what, you guys just had a nice little chat, did you? He told you all of this, no problem?” Ryan took several steps forward, his eyes blazing. “He’s fucking lying, Geoff, let me see the knife.”

Geoff looked over at Ryan lazily, flicking the switchblade open and closed between his fingers. “Sit down, Ryan. You know how Michael is. Not everyone leaves a trail of bodies wherever they go… You could take a lesson from him, actually.” Ryan looked taken aback, but stayed silent. “And stay quiet, or I’m kicking your ass out.”

He turned his attention back to Ray, who was now realizing how lucky he was to get out of Ryan’s grasp alive and relatively unharmed.

“Tell me what happened.”

Ray shifted uncomfortably. _Tell the truth_ , he told himself, _You’ve done nothing to fuck with them, tell the truth._

He took a shaky breath before speaking. It took all of his resolve to keep his voice from quivering.

“He was using my bathroom to dress his wounds. I had brought some alcohol home with me, and he took it and drank some, poured some on the tear in his arm. We talked for a minute. I gave him Tramadol,” Ray swallowed again. _Fuck_ his throat hurt. “I asked him to leave and he tried to rob me, he had found the money I had been saving hidden in my toilet.”

Geoff and Ryan exchanged a look, laughter in their eyes. Geoff giggled, and Ray tried to ignore him.

“We started yelling at each other, but some guy busted through the front door, calling out for Michael. Michael pushed me up against the corner, and tried to disarm the guy, but he was thrown back. His gun landed by my feet, like it does in the movies.” He swallowed, embarrassed, but there was no stopping the word vomit pouring from him, and he plowed on. “The dude advanced on him, he meant to kill him, raised his gun, so I… I panicked and shot him. Killed him, right there in the bathroom. Michael was passing out, but he told me to bring him here, gave me an address. I grabbed the guns and the money and I… I came here.”

Geoff was chewing the inside of his cheek. He had stayed silent and immobile during Ray’s story, and Ray allowed himself a glisten of hope that maybe, just maybe, Geoff might believe him.

“Why?”

Ray met Geoff’s eyes. “Why what?”

There was a moment of silence as Geoff leaned back, placing his arms behind his head, staring at Ray as though he didn’t quite understand him. “Why did you come here? Why didn’t you leave Michael there, take the guns and the money and run? Michael tried to kill you, didn’t he?”

Ray shifted uncomfortably. “I mean…no. He tried to rob me, sure, but I don’t think he wanted to kill me. And as for why… I don’t know. I didn’t have any better ideas. I couldn’t stay there, and I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Besides, if I took off with the money…” Ray licked his lips, weighing the options of saying what had been clouding his thoughts, “…I thought Michael would probably come find me, and take it back. Figured I’d better do the honest thing.”

“The smart thing, you mean,” Geoff agreed, and motioned for his drink. Ryan handed it over carefully, far more cautious with the whiskey than he had been with Ray’s neck. Geoff studied it for a moment, his eyes alight with musings that Ray was begging to know, before he downed the remainder of the drink in one shot.

He smacked his lips appreciatively and rose, looming over Ray with a shadow that only a powerful man could cast. “I’ll be back when Michael wakes up. I’ll get his side before I decide what to do with you. In the meantime,” he motioned towards Ryan, who was leaning against the wall, watching Ray with dark eyes, “I trust you won’t have any inclinations towards loosening those ropes if I promise you that Ryan will be the one to find you.”

Ray shook his head, his voice silent but his heart pounding. Ryan terrified him, along with everyone else here. But Michael… Michael was the key to getting his freedom, and suddenly, Ray knew an entirely different kind of fear: helplessness. The blinding reality that his fate was to be decided by a man he barely knew. A man who had likely killed more people than Ray had even met.

Geoff and Ryan didn’t spare Ray a single stray look before letting the door slam shut behind them, leaving the room with a metallic echo that faded slowly until it matched the ringing in Ray’s ears. Then, everything was silent. The burning scratch of the cords cutting into his wrists was the only thing he could feel other than the blinding terror that overwhelmed even the smallest hope that somehow, Michael would spare him. Save him.

Ray cursed himself as helplessness and dismay tried to fill his mind, reminding him of his loss. His job, his home, his savings. His new start. Michael had taken that from him, and here he was, praying that the same man who had fucked him over would somehow be able to restore his shit life.

Ray heard the first drop of blood slide from his fingertip and hit the concrete beneath him, shattering the wall of fragile thoughts and fears piling up against him. He waited, feeling a second gush of liquid follow the path of the first, hitting the floor with a satisfying plop. It was cathartic, and he waited, each small droplet of blood calming him, helping him manage his breathing and focus his mind.

Could he go back? Find a new job, sleep in his car until he could afford a down payment on another shitty studio apartment? Work for months, years, saving up just enough to pay for gas out of Los Santos? Start over again? Did he even want to?

Ray shook the shiver from his body, trying to rid himself of the grotesque image of going back, redoing his life only to achieve the same level of unhappiness. To walk through his days feeling nothing but bland hope for a future he couldn’t guarantee, to live his life waiting for a moment, any moment, to give him a definition of who he was.

His heart leapt when he remembered the rush of adrenaline he felt to fire a gun, to speed away from a crime scene. To save a life, and to take a life. That had been a fucking moment, hadn’t it? He felt like he never had before, truly _felt_. It may not have defined him, but it awakened something, something that drew him away from the misery of his own making, the barren landscape that been his own, exquisite heartache. For once in his unbearable life, he had been finally been truly alive.

And within the four walls of concrete and harsh lights, over the sound of falling droplets of blood, over the racing of his own heart, he knew he could never go back.

And there was only one way forward.


	4. 04

Ray eventually fell asleep, his head supported against his shoulder while his arms remained limp behind him. The light made it hard to rest peacefully, and each time it roused him, the sharp stab of realization in his aching joints made it difficult to return to relax enough to find a comfortable slumber. 

He wasn’t sure how many hours passed before the metal door opened again, but his weariness and pain seemed to vanish as Geoff stepped in, followed closely by Ryan, Michael, and the younger looking guy that had rushed past Ray earlier to retrieve Michael from his car. The sound of their feet on the concrete beneath them was impressive, in the least, and Ray shrank in their presence as they filed in. His terror was rapidly returning.

He tried to study their faces, their movements, anything that might hint in advance what the outcome of their discussion had been, but they remained stoic, filing in silently and quickly. 

Ray noticed that the younger one, Gavin, was dressed finely; not a suit like Geoff, but his clothes were clearly expensive and form fitting. He looked almost out of place next to Ryan and Michael, who both sported leather jackets and washed out denim. Ray’s curiosity was piqued enough to study Gavin carefully for a moment, eyes ghosting over his appearance and trying to guess his role in the gang, but Gavin hardly took notice of him. 

When he caught Michael’s eyes, however, Michael flashed a cocky grin and gave him what may have been a wink, but the pounding in Ray’s head might have been making him hallucinate. 

Geoff was the only one that moved forward, once again straddling himself on the chair in front of Ray, looking thoughtful. His eyes were tired and worn, and he seemed bored of the conversation before it even began. 

Ray’s heart was pounding. If he were to die, would they all be here like this? Would Geoff had come alone, maybe sent Ryan? Or did they all enjoy the spectacle? He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it only made him feel like vomiting. 

“So,” Geoff began, chewing the inside of his cheek in apparent consideration. He was studying Ray closely. “I’ve spoken to Michael, and his story matched yours nearly word for word, with the addition of some expletives. Looks like you’re telling the truth, Narvaez.”

Ray wouldn’t look at Michael. He wouldn’t. In his shock, he wondered vaguely if his heart would ever return to his chest where it belonged, or if it was just going to stay lodged in his throat for the rest of his life. A life that suddenly seemed so much longer than it did two hours previously. He kept his head bowed, processing this information, realizing that Michael had vouched for him. He felt like he could cry just for being  _believed_ , for Michael not selling him out just for the fun of it. And Ray had been stupid enough to argue with him, to piss him off. 

“So now that we’ve all come to the conclusion that you’re not a liar, just a dumbass caught in a bad spot, we need to decide what to do with you.”

“He knows where our hideout is now, Geoffrey,” Gavin interjected, and the accent in his voice was enough for Ray to brave looking up at him again. _British?_

He studied Gavin a little more closely, taking in the lithe frame and intentionally mussed up hair; a scraggly covering of facial hair adorned his face, but it did little to macho up his appearance. There was a distinctly mischievous look about him, and Ray couldn’t imagine him pulling a gun on anyone, let alone being generally _associated_ with crime. He looked bizarrely out of place, but the way he stood comfortably between Geoff and Michael made it plain that he was still entirely within his element. 

“He’s right,” Ryan followed, moving his eyes away from Ray to land on Geoff, who refused to look back at either of them. He kept his gaze firmly on Ray. “We’ve set up real nice here, and this asshole will sell us out to The Families for enough money. Any money, by the looks of him,” he added, and Ray shot him a dirty look, against his better judgement. 

“What, you want to kill him because he brought me here?”

Ray looked up at the sound of Michael’s voice. It was the only spark of familiarity that he had here, and part of him latched onto it, hoping that Michael was on his side, despite their rather hostile introduction. He was praying that he still had a fight here, that he still maintained an inkling of control on the situation. He just needed something to grasp on to. Anything. 

Michael folded his arms and rested his back against the wall behind him. “You guys act like he broke in. He came here because I fucking told him to, remember? He risked his life to get me back here, to somewhere safe.”

“Oh, sure,” Ryan scoffed. “Let’s commemorate his cowardice by giving him a chance to rat us out. He came here because he didn’t have a choice, Michael. He was scared, and he didn’t know what the fuck to do.” Ryan felt Ray’s gaze on him and met it without hesitation. He stared him down, begging Ray to challenge him. Ray, shamefully, averted his eyes. “Besides,” Ryan continued, “He only brought you back because he wanted a cut. Right?”

Ray didn’t answer. 

“Who cares? He could have taken all the money and fucking booked it. He asked me what to do, how to help me…” Michael paused, running a hand through his hair, considering his next words. “I mean, I’m all for whacking people that pose a threat to us, but this isn’t like that. Dude saved my life.”

“He saved his  _own_ life,” Ryan chastised, and it was cold to hear, even for Ray. “You just happened to get lucky he didn’t hesitate.”

“Hey,  _fuck_ you, Ryan!” Michael pushed himself off the wall and took several steps forward. “Not everyone has to die just because you’re on a fucking murder spree!”

“Why the fuck do you care about this guy anyway, Michael? I’ve never seen you give a shit before, why start now?” Ryan retorted, looking entirely unfazed that Michael was picking a fight. 

“Other than the fact that he saved my life and drove me back here to an unhinged, trigger-happy gang without any concern for his own safety?”

Ryan shrugged, “Yeah?”

Michael glared at him for a moment, but his shoulders sagged, defeated. “I think it would be a waste, honestly.”

“A waste of what, a bullet?” Gavin laughed, and Ray swallowed hard, shaken from Gavin's distinct emotional detachment. He turned his attention to Michael with wide, terrified eyes and silently begged him to keep up the fight for Ray’s life. 

“No, damn it,” Michael sighed, aggravated. “A waste of fucking potential.”

The room went oddly quiet after that, and Ray waited, barely breathing as his heart pounded out of his chest.  _Potential?_

“What do you mean, Michael?” Geoff asked quietly, still not taking his eyes off of Ray, who was becoming used to the scrutiny of his gaze and finding it oddly protective. There was no switchblade in his hands this time, but danger was still seeping off of Geoff just as potently as his patience and curiosity.

Michael looked slightly relieved to be able to converse with someone other than Ryan, and turned towards Geoff.

“All five shots, straight in zone, Geoff. Tell me that isn’t fucking impressive.”

Michael sounded almost earnest, and Ray’s head was reeling. He had just aimed and shot. There had been no consideration, no time to think and position himself properly. He was lucky he even hit the guy, though he hadn't given it much thought at the time. It hadn’t been talent, it hadn’t been  _potential_ , just adrenaline and luck. 

“You ever fire a gun before?”

Geoff was addressing him, and the air was thick with tension around them. Baited breath and discomfort. Ray shook his head. 

“Nothing?” Geoff continued, while Michael watched him uncertainly in the background. “Hunting? Shooting range? Airsoft, paintball, BB guns?”

“No,” Ray mumbled, and his voice was barely there, scratched from dehydration and shock. “I’ve never even held a gun.”

Geoff sighed and sat up, popping his back before casting a look at Michael. “And you think it’s worth looking into?”

Ray finally met Michael’s eyes, and found himself on the receiving end of a look so electrifying he felt a shiver run through his body. It was a horrible mix of absolute exposure and scrutiny, like a blank canvas, meat for cooking, a whore for fucking. Brown eyes sparked with intensity and for a moment, Ray forgot that he had entrusted his freedom to this man, he only wanted a way to escape from this moment, the feeling of being appraised, of being planned for. There was a flutter of nerves in his chest that had nothing to do with staying alive. 

He tore himself away from the gaze and planted his eyes on the concrete beneath him, unseeing. His emotions took a drastic turn from fearing for his life to being completely unsettled. He wasn’t sure which he preferred. 

“I do,” Michael finally answered, and the room stayed quiet. 

“Trade him,” Ryan offered, a careless shrug accompanying his casual tone. 

Geoff and Ray both looked up at him, but Ray remained quiet, hoping he and Geoff shared the same confusion and Geoff would voice it for the both of them..

“Trade him? Trade him for what?”

“We still owe the Vagos at least six hundred thousand in lost cocaine–”

“–Thanks,  _Gavin_ –” Michael interrupted. 

“–And I don’t know about you, but I don’t have that lying around. I know we’ve been planning that heist, but we need that shit for ourselves.”

“Alright,” Geoff agreed, “But what does that have to do with numbnuts here?”

It might have been funny, if Ray wasn’t certain he was about to be a victim of human trafficking. 

“Well, Carlos put out word that they’re looking for a third-man. Someone good, highly accurate and professional, and they’re willing to pay good money for him. This kid might not be worthy of the position, but if they like him, it would be enough to pay off our debt.” Ryan paused, looking Ray over. “Besides, it’s not every day you meet a Hispanic that can even hold a pistol the proper way, much less shoot accurately with it. The Vagos will love him regardless."

Geoff bit his lip, thinking. Michael and Gavin hovered nearby, and while Gavin’s face was blank, almost bored, Michael looked uneasy. 

Ray cleared his throat, trying to get the scratching pain to go away so he could speak. "I’m, uh, I’m fairly certain slavery is illegal.”

Ryan shrugged in response. “We could just kill you, then.”

“In retrospect, slavery sounds great. Nothing I want more than to hang around a bunch of Mexicans all day, hearing ‘puta’ at the end of every sentence.”

Geoff actually giggled, and Michael smiled. It lit up his face. But Ray, in his anger, ignored both of them. Sarcasm was a fall back, and right now, he didn’t care if being mouthy cost him anything. His day was already shot to shit. 

“Can you get hold of Carlos, Ryan?”

Ryan nodded at Geoff, looking entirely too pleased with himself and trying to withhold the grin from his face. Geoff stood, making to end the discussion, and Ray panicked. 

“Wait! You just want to sell me away? What if I rat you guys out?”

Geoff scoffed. “Please. The Vagos already know we’re here… we’re business partners of sorts. At least, when they need suicidal jobs done, they hire us. They respect us in that regard.”

“And what if I don’t comply? What I refuse to work for them, to be trained?”

Geoff leaned forward and mussed up his hair, like a parent to a child. Ray tried to jerk away from him, but it only made his wrists hurt. 

“Well, we can always find another way to get six hundred grand, couldn’t we? Besides, we’d just put a bullet in your skull and dump you out in the river. The Vagos… they won’t be as sweet on you.” He moved back and addressed the room. “Ryan, you’ve got some calls to make, I believe, and Michael, you’ve obviously taken a liking to the kid, so I want you up on the range with him. See what he can do, and if he's actually worth considering for a trade.”

Michael nodded as Geoff and Ryan made to leave the room, but Gavin looked put-out, almost pouting, and asked, “What about me, Geoff? Can I go with Michael?”

“No, Gavin,” and Geoff’s voice suddenly turned harsh, a flash of half-assed anger in his eyes. “You’re going to the armory to relabel fucking _everything_. I mean it. Every single piece of gear we have, I want it tallied and in the system. You almost cost Michael his life today by being a stupid fucking airhead. Don’t come up from there until you’re done, and don't you dare whine to me about it!”

Gavin hung his head, but followed Ryan out of the door silently and without protest. Geoff made to follow him, but gave one last look at Michael and Ray, his eyes scanning over both of them as if trying to gauge a reading, but coming up empty. 

“Be careful, Michael. Give him blanks and watch your back. When you’re done, take him to B block and lock him in. Make sure he has what he needs to survive, and boot up surveillance.”

Michael nodded, looking impatient, and Geoff finally closed the door, leaving Ray alone with Michael for the first time since the incident in his apartment. The air was light between them, which was good, because Ray could barely concentrate on his nerves. His head was pounding and his throat was on fire. Michael ran a hand through his hair, and his sleeve was jerked up enough for Ray to see that the cut on his arm had been properly sanitized and bandaged. 

“So, The Vagos then, huh?”

“Looks like it,” Ray replied, his voice hoarse. “Could I get some water? I feel like I just sucked Satan’s dick.”

Michael laughed, and it was genuine. Ray didn’t care. While he was grateful to be alive, he still wasn’t sure if it was worth it, considering his apparently inevitable future. 

“Yeah, man, hang on.” He bent down behind Ray’s chair, and Ray heard the telltale sound of a switchblade. Michael hovered for a moment, cautious. “You know that I can stick this blade deep in your throat before you even get a swing at me, right?” It was almost urgent, pleading. Not exactly a threat or a warning, but a reminder: Michael would absolutely kill him, but he’d prefer not to. 

“Please. I about pissed myself when you had a gun up against my head.”

“Don’t worry,” Michael replied, and Ray could hear the smile in his voice, that same shit-eating grin he had pulled on Ray back at the apartment. “It happens to a lot of guys.”

Ray tried to convince himself it wasn’t funny, but his body betrayed him, shaking slightly in silent laughter. 

“Alright, hold still,” Michael said, and cut the twine circling Ray’s wrists. Ray had realized a few hours ago that Ryan had looped the thin rope on purpose, trying to find the material most likely to cut into Ray’s skin. He shivered at the thought, and reminded himself to never cross that man again. 

The air against his cuts burned so good, and Ray let out a relieved sigh, bringing his hands in front of him, examining the damage and feeling the stretch in his grateful joints. The cuts weren’t deep, but there were plenty of them, adoring the circumference of his wrists like red wreaths. 

Michael watched him silently, giving him a moment to himself before clearing his throat. “Come on, you need to get that blood off your hands first. We have a makeshift infirmary on this floor.”

Ray stood up, bending his wrists back and forth, testing the wounds. “And on the other floors?”

Michael was busy tossing the length of rope on the table behind the chair, which held the variety of instruments that Ray didn’t care to know the use of. 

“Mm, this floor is basically for show, in case someone is snooping. A couple of interrogation rooms, medical supplies, holding cells. That’s where you’ll be staying, by the way. Downstairs, underground, is the armory and ammunition storage, well locked and hidden. Two floors above you is a custom shooting range; turns out these big empty floorplans aren’t completely useless. Geoff’s shit is all upstairs, that’s where we usually are. Where we plan. It's insulated like a fucking panic room.”

He threw a  towel over the small puddle of blood beneath the chair and motioned for Ray to exit. Ray was hesitant, but pulled open the door, greeting the foyer that had been much more imposing only hours ago. Now it just made him angry and bitter.

“Do you guys live here?” he questioned, wondering faintly where big-shot criminals usually took down residence. 

Michael laughed, “Nah, man,” but didn’t divulge anything further. 

He pressed his fist into Ray’s back to keep him moving, aiming him towards the large middle doors Ray had initially heard Geoff come through. Not wanting to provoke any more violence today, Ray obeyed the jabbing hand and pushed the door open, finding himself in a large room, support pillars going back for a few rows. Three cots lay against the right wall, with cabinets littered around them and a single, large sink hiding in the back. 

“Wash up,” Michael said cheerfully, and left him to began rummaging through the top cabinets. 

Ray looked around without much hope. Everything was boarded up, and he had absolutely no combat training of any kind. Even if he did try to run back out the front doors, Michael would easily overtake him. And again, there was that heavy knowledge in his bones that there wasn’t really anywhere for him to run to anyway. 

He sighed and made his way towards the sink, intent on scrubbing the dried blood from his hands. The marks hadn’t been as bad as he expected, though they still dribbled blood when he moved, and he watched the red tinted water flow down the drain with a little more hope. _Start with the small victories_ , he told himself. _Keep going from there._ He cupped his hands and pooled water in them, drinking until the sting in his throat became a dull throb and his headache took back burner.

Michael was waiting for him on a cot, a fresh roll of gauze in his hands. Ray sat down on the cot opposite, eyeing the roll with apprehension. 

“Do you really think I need that?”

Michael shrugged. “You going to say no to me patching you up?”

Ray rolled his eyes. “Just try and do a better job than you did on yourself. You owe me for today, anyway, so I'll take what I can get from you at this point.”

Surprisingly, Michael didn’t answer, but slowly started unrolling the gauze. He was silent for a moment, grabbing Ray’s hand and beginning to wind the soft fabric around his wrists. It felt like he had meant it to be a rough movement, but lost heart halfway through, and his fingers were almost gentle as they moved Ray's hand to an easier position.

“I’m sorry for this, you know,” he mumbled quietly. “I knew I was screwing you over when I asked you to bring me back, but I didn’t care. I was fucking selfish, and honestly, I kind of thought it would be funny.”

Ray seized his moment for information. He didn’t know if Michael was usually repentant, or even calm, and it might be his only chance to get him to open up. Maybe change Ray’s circumstances. 

“What were you trying to tell me, before you passed out? You said 'tell them not to…’ Tell them not to what?”

Michael looked up at him, and Ray swears, he  _swears_ the smile is genuine, and it confounds the fuck out of him. Were they not enemies? Wasn’t Ray pissed at him,  _furious_? This wasn't okay, and he wanted to grit his teeth with how easy it was to pretend that this wasn't all Michael's fucking fault in the first place.

“Ah, I meant 'tell them not to kill you,’ but that seems a dumbfuck thing to say now, doesn’t it?” He laughs, and finishes Ray’s left wrist, moving on to the right. “I didn’t think they would kill you, honestly. I thought they might beat you a up a bit and send you on your way. I didn’t really think…”

He trails off, and Ray swallows heavily, grasping desperately for a change of topic. 

“This…Vagos gang. What are they like?”

Michael sighs, stopping his movements and merely holding Ray’s wrist as he contemplates the question. “A fucking spiderweb. They’ve got men everywhere, connections everywhere. We work for them, sometimes, but we never mingle. Some of them are hardcore, no mercy guys, but most are just kids or drug addicts. Expendable men.”

“And me?” Ray asks, and it’s quiet, hurt. More emotional than he meant it to be. And when Michael looks back, there’s no smile in his eyes. 

“I don’t know, man. Depends on if you have skill enough.”

There’s a long pause, in which Michael finishes wrapping Ray’s wounds. Ray’s whole body feels heavy, weary, and the little hope he had found is slowly starting to drift from him, replaced by desperation. He swallows thickly, pride be damned. 

“Michael… please.”

And Michael stops, but won’t meet his eyes, only listens.

“I can’t do this. I’m not gang material. I get high in my apartment and play Call of Duty, for fuck’s sake. I’m still reeling I killed that guy today. Can’t you… can’t you do anything?”

Michael tenses, and Ray can tell he’s uncomfortable and on edge, but he’s radiating guilt. “I can’t. We owe them a good chuck of cash, and we’re behind as it is. I don’t… look, I feel fucking terrible about this, alright? I really do. Normally I don’t give a shit, but…” He trailed off, looking put off by himself, and refused to look at Ray. “You put your life on the line to save me, even if it only was to get your cash back. You could’ve taken it and ran, especially after I had threatened to kill you.”

“You weren’t going to, right? Kill me, I mean. You would’ve done it and been on your way,” Ray looked at him urgently, and Michael finally met his eyes. “Right?”

Michael smiled, just a bit broken. “Nah. You’re the only guy that ever had the balls to talk back to me. I respected you too much to kill you. Hopefully it'll stay that way.”

Ray’s heart jolts, and panic races back through his veins in a flurry. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Michael shrugs, his uncaring composure not entirely convincing. “I mean, we get into shoot outs with Vagos all the time. Especially ones that are hellbent on revenge,” he adds, his tone dangerous, and Ray understands the hint immediately. 

Never give Michael a reason. Never seek justice for Michael's fuck up, even with a pack of Vagos at his side.

Michael stands up, nodding his head towards the door. “Come on. Let’s go find out if you’re even worth that six hundred grand.”


	5. 05

Ray wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting when Geoff and Michael had used the term “gun range,” but when they climbed the stairs to the third level, Ray had to bite back his surprise. 

The entire floor had been converted into a shooting range, with targets bound to hanging clips from the ceiling, dropped to eye level. The floor plan was open, and it allowed a clean row of stalls to be set up without any interference. It was simple, plain, but effective, and the wooden separators were held up by sturdy, smart barricades, clearly handmade. The smell of gunpowder still lingered, and it melded well with the static air of electricity Michael seemed to radiate. Ray took a few cautious steps forward, trying to get a better look at all that surrounded him. 

There was writing on the wood, a vast away of sharpie artwork and poorly constructed insults. Ray looked past all the dick drawings and managed to read a few through the harsh lights on the ceiling. 

 

 _Michael: IIII_  
_Gavin: 0 motherfucker!_  
 _Jack hearts butts._  
 _8==D~_

 

“What do you think?” Michael asked him mildly, pulling his pistol out of his back pocket and setting it on the large metal toolbox by the door. 

“You guys did all this?” Ray asked, peering down the range. It was only about 300 yards, but the thought of trying to hit the tiny target in the back of room made his throat tight. And to hit it in zone? Ray knew there was no way in hell, and tried to focus his thoughts on something other than what the crew might do with him when he proved useless. 

“Eh, more or less,” Michael commented, opening the thin, slotted drawers of the box. “It’s definitely not professional,” he tapped his foot against the toolbox, as if to reinforce his point, “But it suits us when we need to get practice in and we’re laying low. Any other time we can just go to the ones out in town." He stopped and pulled out a smaller, almost plastic-looking pistol, and held it out for Ray to see. "Ever see one of these?”

Ray nodded, mute. He saw them everywhere. He assumed they were cheap, because his apartment complex was littered with people openly carrying them. Even officers had them.

“It’s a Glock,” Michael continued, examining it. “And it’s the most popular pistol in the city for a lot of reasons. It’s cheap, for one, and you can always find them. It’s also pretty fucking hard to accidentally shoot yourself with, which is good, considering the amount of dumb assholes here. The magazine is easy to load, and you don’t need any tools to take it apart and clean it.”

Ray was listening intently, trying to soak up any information he could. Anything and everything could be used to help himself, regardless of what his future entailed, and he didn’t want to miss a single thing Michael was saying. He didn’t know when he’d get this kind of instruction again.

Michael pressed the release button on the side, and the clip fell into his waiting hands. 

“This mag holds 17 rounds, but you can get high capacity rounds that will give you 33. Loading and unloading is easy–” He demonstrated quickly, slipping the clip back into the grip of the gun. “And I can show you how to load the actual magazine later.” He released the safety and pulled back on top of the gun, and Ray heard that faint click of danger. 

“Now, several things that you need to know, before we get started. This is a  _weapon_ , so never, fucking  _never_ point it at anything you’re not willing to see die. No jokes, no fucking around, none of that bullshit.”

Michael’s tone was laced with a severity he hadn’t heard since he’d backed Ray into a corner.   


_This guy_ will _kill you._  


Ray nodded, swallowing hard. 

“Secondly,” Michael continued, and he met Ray’s eyes. “Your mag right now is full of blanks. You won’t actually be shooting anything yet, not until I say. Still, blanks can, and  _will_ , eject some stuffing, and if you’re point-blank at the receiving end of it, it can be bad. So, see rule number one for reference if you need.”

He turned and grabbed his own pistol from the shelf, and held the Glock out for Ray to take. Ray reached his shaking hand out, hardly daring to believe he was being handed a weapon, but Michael pulled back slightly, urging Ray to meet his eyes. 

There was fire there, hot and unwavering, and Ray cowered inwardly at the threat he saw in them. 

“Thirdly, and most importantly, if you try and harm me with this, or if you dare to even  _think_ about harming my crew, I will not hesitate to gun you down. I will be behind you the entire time, and I’m much, much faster and more practiced than you. I  _will_ kill you, and I won’t regret it. Are we understood?”

Ray nodded, speechless, and Michael finally let him curl his fingers around the slight weight of the Glock. 

“Okay,” Ray said, gathering his nerves. He repeated what had become his mantra in his head, even if it had proved entirely unreliable at this point.   


_Don’t fuck with them, they won’t fuck with you._  


“Tell me what to do.”

Michael guided him to the nearest stall, constantly vigilant of Ray’s movements and body language. He pushed Ray to the front, between two dividers, and stood behind him. 

“Now, what’s going to fuck you up is when you pull the trigger. You can have your shot lined up perfectly, but if you don’t pull the trigger correctly, you can miss by whole feet, yards even. Hold it up.”

Ray did as he was told, bringing the pistol up with both hands, level with his head. He felt a bit ridiculous, unsure if he was doing anything wrong, but Michael showed no signs of wanting to humiliate him. 

“Okay. You have to pull the trigger slowly, keep your accuracy. You try and do it fast and you’re going to lose all control and look like the idiot with two revolvers in his hands in those old cartoons. You  _cannot_ flinch. If you jerk, or get apprehensive, you’re going to fuck up your shot.”

Ray smiled, awkwardly. “Is this a bad time to admit that I still jump when I’m opening a can of biscuits?”

He heard Michael soft exhale of laughter behind him. “Can’t judge you there. Those fucking cans scare me more than a shoot off. Okay. I’m going to gauge what you do first, with just those immediate tips, and then figure out where to go from there.”

“You want me to…” Ray hesitated, looking down at the weapon in his hands skeptically. “You want me to fire this?”

“Yup,” Michael responded, light-hearted, but cautious. “It’s only a blank, so you won’t actually be firing a bullet, but we have to start small.”

He felt Michael shuffle behind him, and a pair of ear muffs were slipped onto his head. Michael checked the fit, made sure it was secure, then tapped the plastic against Ray’s ear to give him the go ahead.

“Alright,” Ray mumbled, despite not being able to hear it, and Michael took a small step backwards to give him room. Ray could see him fingering his own pistol though, constantly aware and ready to defend himself if Ray made a move on him. Ray tried to steel himself; there was a strange urge inside of him to do this right, to impress Michael. Maybe to impress himself. 

There was a tiny sight at the top of the gun, and Ray tried to focus on it. He lined up his shot as if it were real, trying to force his concentration on the target, hoping to ignore the reminder in the back of his brain of what he was about to experience. The anticipation of recoil was making it harder to avoid. He tried to follow instructions, tried to keep a clean aim and pull the trigger slowly, but it felt like a gas pedal underneath the foot of a new driver. He slammed down on it too quickly, feeling his fingers slip almost as soon as he put pressure against it. The shot rang out, muffled, and Ray’s arms jerked up almost two feet. 

He cursed and lowered his hands, remembering to keep the pistol facing away from him. He pried off his ear muffs and turned back towards Michael, who, surprisingly, was smiling at him. 

“What?” he asked, with a smirk that was quickly jumping up on Ray's list of 'most unnerving things', “You expected to do well?”

Ray was irritated at himself, and lowered his eyes to the pistol in his hand. “No, but… I at least expected to shoot like I did back at my apartment.”

“That was different,” Michael shrugged. “You had adrenaline pumping through your veins and no other thoughts. It’s amazing what people can do when they’re under pressure. You’re calm now, and you’re thinking about a million other things. Plus, your fingering was off.”

“My…what?”

He glanced down, wondering how he could have done such a simple thing wrong. He wasn’t even aware you could  _have_ wrong positioning of one single finger.

“Yeah, you’re… well, hold on, let me show you.”

And to Ray’s disbelief, Michael set his ear muffs and his pistol down on the table. He returned to Ray’s side, unarmed. 

“Put your arms up.”

Ray did as he was told and raised his arms into shooting position, waiting for further instructions. Even with how light the gun was, Ray knew his arms were going to ache soon the longer he kept them like this, especially if and when he moved on to heavier weapons. He was going to have to give serious thought about strengthening his body. 

“I’m going to move your posture, okay? Just relax. And don’t hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you,” Ray replied softly, and the idea was almost laughable. He smiled. 

Michael put his hands up on Ray’s shoulders. “Relax,” he said, pressing against them until Ray loosened his muscles. “Your shoulders shouldn’t be up into your neck.” He kicked Ray’s feet apart, just a few more inches than they had been. “Balance is important, have a good, strong stance, be planted into the ground.” 

He moved to Ray’s arms, pulling them in a little so they weren’t locked out. Michael was close to him now, close enough that Ray could see the freckles on his skin and the brown in his eyes as he darted his gaze across Ray’s body, sizing up his stance and making small adjustments. He could try something brazen, maybe headbutt him, like in the movies. Would that really work? He could hit him with the blank, but at this distance, it might actually kill him. Ray swallowed, a little uncomfortable with the realization that no part of him actually wanted to harm Michael.

He felt bizarrely safe here, with him. Maybe because Michael had tried to pull him out of danger at the apartment, maybe because he showed no signs of wanting to screw Ray over, at least, not anymore. Regardless, Ray felt far more secure here with Michael, the man that had ruined his life, than he did out on the streets, or even in his own apartment. Ray was perfectly aware that it was because of Michael's practiced profession, his ability to protect and defend, but there was an inkling of something else, something that reminded Ray of well-worn smiles and fluid certainty. Of friendship and home. 

He swallowed that hard thought and tried to focus again. Michael finished adjusting his arms, and already Ray felt more comfortable, more relaxed, but his heart took an annoying leap when Michael’s fingers came up to grab his right hand, tugging it gently away from the gun. He held Ray’s hand out, pointing to the pad on his trigger finger. 

“You want the trigger right here, directly in the middle of your finger. No tips, and no joints. Just the pad.” He replaced Ray’s hand and allowed him to wrap his fingers around the grip. Michael’s hands followed him, encasing Ray’s fingers under his own and pressing tight against them. “Grip tight, tighter than you think you need to. These are all amateur mistakes, and they make such a difference. People don’t respect this knowledge anymore. Understanding how to do things right instead of doing them quickly will make you better at saving lives, and even better at taking them.”

He didn’t release Ray’s hands as he spoke, and Ray’s eyes had begun to wander. Michael’s arms were pressed up close to him in their proximity, and he was able to make out the assortment of tattoos sprayed across Michael's skin. Video game references, all of them. A surge of affection passed across his nerves and he mentally shook his head to clear it. His skin felt hotter. 

“Alright, got it,” he nodded as Michael finished and pulled away. He tried not to move his stance at all, and was a little relieved when Michael pulled his ear muffs up from around his neck and secured them over his head for him. He then followed suit with his own, and gave Ray another tap against the plastic. He didn’t pick up his pistol from the table. 

Ray hesitated, wondering if it would be worth it. To kill Michael with the blank and try to make it out. He willed himself to find a single reason, a spark of bravery or desire to free himself from this place, but he knew that in his very bones he didn’t feel like a prisoner. At least, not to Michael, who was easily becoming a beacon for all the uncertain thoughts Ray paced himself through every night, wondering just how much of the world he was missing.  

Hell, he even felt like they could’ve been friends. In another life. 

The thought rang clear as day in his head, and he almost smiled. He kept his stance and adjusted his finger, feeling the pressure of the trigger beneath it become more manageable. He was more in control. The gun felt lighter in his hands, and he lined up a shot, feeling somehow at peace with himself. He pulled the trigger slowly, and time seemed to fade, siphoned from the air around him until he was left with only the shadows of the world that encompassed him. Ray let out a soft breath, a simple exhale, and he felt the firing pin active in his hands as though it were in slow motion. It was a split second in time, but it Ray was aware of every movement he made, and he was in complete control. 

This time, when the round fired, his hands didn’t move. 

Time jerked forward, and the air suddenly felt heavier. Ray felt his body more, and the pistol less, and where thoughts had vanished just previously, his brain was now working on overdrive. He pulled his ear muffs off and turned to look at Michael, who was watching him with wide eyes as he removed his pair. 

“Holy shit, dude.”

Ray felt the laughter creep through his body, breaking down walls he hadn't realized he'd put up. “Yeah?” He broke into a grin and experienced his first moment of true happiness in what felt like years.

Michael strode forward and removed the gun from his hands, examining it closely, face still masked in bewildered shock. “How the fuck did you do that? Your hands barely moved!”

“What are you even looking for?” Ray laughed. “It didn’t fire itself, buddy.”

Michael flipped the safety on and proceeded to turn the gun over, as if looking for the remains of a spell Ray might have cast on it. 

“Seriously, how did you do that? It takes people  _months_ to get the shakes out of their hands, and even longer to perfect a trigger pull like that. What the fuck changed right now?”

Color rose to Ray’s cheeks. He certainly wasn’t about to tell him what he had been thinking about moments before he fired, and he seriously doubted that could have been the reason regardless. 

“I actually listened to you,” he offered quickly, trying to hide the lie in his voice. “Sound like you just had shitty students in the past.”

“No shit,” Michael mumbled, awestruck. He went silent for a moment, considering, before returning to the metal toolbox, placing the Glock on it. He picked up his own pistol, which was similar in size, and returned to Ray. 

“This is my personal gun, a Springfield. It’s the first pistol Geoff ever gave me, and I carry it on me wherever I go.” He looked sentimental, and Ray remained quiet, curious. Michael huffed a decisive breath before smiling wistfully, holding out the gun for Ray to take. “So be careful with it, yeah?”

Ray stared at him, shocked. This was Michael’s  _personal_ weapon, the only thing in the room loaded with actual ammunition, and he was waiting patiently for Ray to take it out of his hands. It had to be a fucking joke. 

“You didn’t load it with blanks though,” was the only thing he could say, and it was muted, soft. 

Michael shrugged. “We don’t keep any actual mags up here, they have to all be checked out downstairs. Blanks are all we’ve got right now, except this. And I want to see what you can do with the target.”

“But…this is…”

“Yeah, my baby, I know,” and Michael smiled at him, pressing the pistol into his hands. “It’s also the gun you got your first kill with, so that’s likely to mean something too. The safety is on, switch it off after you set yourself back up.”

He was so indifferent, so insouciant about the situation that Ray felt like he had missed a critical step in their relationship. He felt winded. Surely it wasn’t that easy to gain Michael’s trust?

“But what if I shoot you?” Ray asked meekly, and Michael smiled again. That horrible, punch-to-the-gut, fantastic smile, and Ray felt his stomach bottom out for reasons he wasn’t entirely ready to admit to himself. 

“You’re not going to shoot me, right?”

“No.”

“Then get on with it. Remember everything I told you? Do you need me to set you up again?”

Ray shook his head, confident that he’d be able to remember his positioning and Michael’s instructions, thought still entirely shell-shocked. He turned to look at the target, adjusting his legs and testing the heavy weight of the Springfield beneath the pads of his fingers. He put his ear muffs back on and could see Michael doing the same out of the corner of his eyes. He clicked the safety off.

He could end this, right now. He could take Michael down, an easy shot and escape, taking the gun with him. He would be able to defend himself if he needed, if the rest of the crew discovered him before he could get out, and he might even take a few of them down if he had the element of surprise. He could go out fighting, if it came to it. The moment was his for the taking, he could decide his own future, right then, with Michael's gun heavy and promising in his hands. 

But the idea of something  _better,_ faint and flickering like a candle caught in a draft, sifted through the turmoil in his mind, and he knew he'd never forgive himself, despite the wrongs done against him. He wouldn't be able to deal with the betrayal on Michael's face. He would never know what this could have become. 

He pushed the rash idea of escape aside and raised the pistol to eye level, lining up his shot on the target closest to him, nothing black and white and tiny numbers. He breathed deep, letting the air out slowly, focusing on his shot. He could do this. He didn’t hesitate, but let the world around him slow again, let time become infinite. He thought of Michael’s shocked face when the gunman had approached him, the realization that he was going to die in some assholes bathroom; he thought about how good it felt to take the life of the man who had tried to kill him. To decide his own fate. To be  _good_ at something. 

The trigger pulled slow, and the first shot fired. It was fluid and easy, and Ray couldn’t distinguish his hands from the weapon. It was an extension of himself, completely under his control and will, and the second shot came quickly after the first, then the third and fourth, until he stopped to take a breath, and the world lurched back into existence, pooling all around him. 

He put the safety back on and lowered his arms, pulling off his ear muffs and trying to adjust to the numbness in his arms. His wrists were aching, and his head was beginning to pound again, but he felt  _alive_.

“I’m going to get the target,” Michael said to him, pulling off his own ear muffs and tossing them on the table. “You’ve got the safety on?”

“Yeah,” Ray nodded, hardly able to hide his anticipation. He couldn’t tell where he had hit on the target, but he knew that he had made contact, and the thought alone sent his heart racing. 

Michael jumped over the barricade and jogged out into the closed range, not even bothering to look back at Ray. The trust was still weird and unsettling. What had Ray done to deserve it? But Michael had torn the target off its hanger and was jogging back, and Ray’s heart was once again in his throat. 

Michael was grinning ear to ear as he hopped back over the wood, the paper rolled up in his hands. He unfurled it for Ray to see, and Ray laughed. A broken, disbelieving laugh that made his head swim as he stared down at the target before him. Two 7’s, and 8, and a 9. All in zone. 

He looked up at Michael, who was positively beaming at him. 

“I think you might be worth more than 600 grand, my friend.”

 

///

 

Michael had let him fire out the rest of his clip, and the results had been the same. They were both in shocked disbelief, and Michael’s vocabulary had shrunk down to muttering “Wow,” every few minutes. 

They sat on the floor afterwards, the hard concrete making their bodies go numb, but neither of them noticed. They had the paper targets spread out before them and were staring at them, unabashed in their stark, happy astonishment. 

“Dude,” Michael said, it was a light whisper. Somehow, he seemed more affected than Ray did. “This is like, me on a good day. And I’ve been doing this for  _years_.”

Ray grinned. “Want some tips?”

“Hey, fuck you man,” but Michael was smiling, and he reached out to touch the holes in the paper while creases of thought formed across his forehead. “I have to tell Geoff. Maybe…”

Ray’s heart skidded to a halt. “Maybe what?”

But Michael waved his hand and shook his head dismissively. “Nothing. I mean, nothing yet. I’ll figure it out.” He offered no more insight and stood up, gathering the papers and rolling them up gingerly. “Alright, you’re going to hate me, but we’ve been up here a long fucking time. I have to get you down to the holding cell.”

“Right,” Ray responded, his mood sinking a bit, but it wasn’t enough to deter the happiness that threatened to engulf him. He had  _talent_. A sought after talent. He was good at something, and could be good at it for a living, if he wanted. 

The thought left him breathless.

Michael led him out the doors, remembering at the last moment to switch their positions and place Ray first, so he could hold his gun up behind him. Ray knew it was just for show now, considering their shared moment at the range, and the barrel in his back only made him slightly antsy. Full blown terror had vanished.

The holding cells were down the hallway from the infirmary, and Ray was pleasantly surprised to see not a jail cell, but a completely closed off room. It wasn't big, but at least offered him a sense of privacy. He went inside, examining the simple cot and toilet. It was basic, sure, but a far cry better than how Ray was expecting to be treated. 

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Michael disappeared out of the door behind him, a rush of activity. He heard the jingle of keys, and realized Michael was locking him in, though Ray was hardly concerned.

He sat down on the cot, testing it, and was suddenly overcome with how utterly exhausted he was. He flopped down on his back and winced, having not prepared himself for the heavy, uncomfortable material beneath him. He laid there silently for several minutes, waiting for Michael to return and mulling over his day. 

He didn’t regret bringing Michael here, but he did regret not fighting for more of a chance. He had let them decide what to do with him, acted exactly like the piece of meat they thought he was. He had been afraid, sure, but he had the lingering thought that Michael would have stood by him if he had made more of an effort. Michael tried to tell them he was a good shot, and Ray had just proved it. He should have tried to sell himself to Geoff more. Tried to do  _anything_.

After several minutes, Micheal announced his return with another jingle of keys, turning the handle then kicking the door open with his foot, as his hands were occupied carrying a large box of items. The door slammed shut heavily behind him, and he puffed as he set the box down in front of Ray, who sat up in unconcealed interest.

“Alright then,” Michael mumbled. “Geoff said to provide you with what you need to survive, so that’s what I brought.” He began to dig through the box, handing Ray things as he went. 

“I brought some Lunchables - sorry, that’s all we had in the fridge, but they’re the ones with Capri Suns, so that’s pretty tits. Um. Here’s some bottled water, you’re probably dehydrated as all fuck. Some Dr. Pepper–”

“Do I need Dr. Pepper to survive?” Ray laughed, taking the cans from Michael’s waiting hands. Michael shot him an annoyed look. 

“What a stupid question. Idiot. ...What else do we have? Oh, right, I found a Hershey’s bar, some toilet paper, a bag of gummy bears, and…” He stood up, and proceeded to dump the rest of the box out on Ray’s cot. 

“…Blankets and a pillow! Because you’re probably already pretty fucking sore thanks to Ryan. Sorry about him, by the way. Oh, yeah, something else.”

Ray was smiling happily at the blankets, which were plush and soft and inviting, but Michael caught his attention when he held out something small and pink. 

“Aw, sweet, a DS?”

Ray took it happily, flipping it over to see what cartridge was in it. 

Pokemon Black.  _Fuck yes._

“It’s just Pokemon, hope you’re alright with that.”

Ray beamed at him. “Yes, it’s perfect. Thank you, seriously.”

Michael cleared his throat, and Ray noted an edge of discomfort on him. Embarrassment, maybe?

“Well, it’s got a full battery, so it should last you the night. I have to lock you in, but I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m taking the key with me, so no one else can get to you.”

Ray knew he meant Ryan, but neither of them acknowledged it, and the pain in his wrists seem to momentarily amplify. Michael hesitated for only a moment, then turned and made to leave, but Ray called him back.

“Hey, I know that all Geoff meant was water and maybe like, some bread or other poor people shit, so I appreciate this. And everything else. Just…” He paused, considering. “Thanks for making this not as shitty as it has to be, you know?”

Michael smirked at him. “Well, I owe you don’t I? See you tomorrow, man.”

And just like that, Michael was gone. Ray sighed and began to arrange his pillow and blankets, wondering how sick he might get if he skipped the Lunchable and went straight for the chocolate bar. Or if he should just skip food all together and just pass out for the night.

As he considered, the door opened again, just wide enough for Michael to toss an additional pillow at him, which Ray caught in surprise. Before he could respond, the door was shut and locked. Ray smiled, holding the second pillow against himself and pondering his own emotions. Pondering what was going to happen next, and how he truly felt about it, all bullshit aside. 

It had easily been the shittiest day of his life, filled with more terrors, blood, and abuse than he had ever wanted to experience. But he knew he'd trade it for any day at the gas station, and the sense of relief that washed over him when he realized he'd never have to pay rent for that shitty fucking apartment ever again was almost indecent. He should be upset; he should be terrified, heartbroken, and overwhelmed with uncertainty and fear. But somehow, in some amazing, unjustified way, he was incandescently  _happy_.

And that scared him most of all.


	6. 06

Ray played Pokemon until he passed out, which wasn’t really too much of a stretch from his normal daily schedule. It felt familiar, and provided him with a comfort he hadn't expected to relax into, though he knew the pillows probably helped far more than the DS. When he woke, he truly had forgotten where he was until the ache in his joints and the sting of his wrists sent him a cruel, stabbing reminder. He groaned and sat up, trying to stretch his muscles out and rid his body of the lingering pains. 

The room around him hadn’t changed, and the door remained firmly shut. He wondered blearily if anyone had come during the night, before remembering that Michael had promised to take the keys with him. It comforted him slightly, since a new day here meant new unknowns, and Ray wasn’t sure he was ready to face them alone yet. 

He took his morning piss, taking note of his incredible dehydration, and was just sitting himself back down to chug one of the water bottles when he heard the faint sounds of keys. The door creaked open and Michael walked in, quickly shutting it behind him and looking flustered and irritated. There was a large smear of blood across his knuckles, and a scowl across his features. Ray's brows knitted together in concern. 

He took a long drink, but kept his eyes focused on Michael and asked, "Yo, you alright?"

“Yeah,” Michael replied, walking over to the sink to wash the blood off of his hand. “Just some punk outside that tried to mug me when he saw my car. Idiot kids.”

“Tried to mug  _you_ , really?”

Michael shrugged. “Apparently I don’t look very intimidating since I’m not sagging my pants and slurring ‘nigga’ into all of my sentences. Happens to me a lot. Not as much as it happens to Gavin, granted, but he’s usually with Geoff anyway to avoid shit like that.”

Ray studied him for a moment, taking note of the odd way he curled his fingers into fists to better scrub off the blood that was quickly congealing on his skin.

“How many fingers have you broken?”

Michael turned the sink off and flexed his fingers, as if seeing them for the first time. The knuckles were red and raw still, but clean, and Ray was able to catch a glimpse of the scars of new skin that reflected the light, dusting his hands as vastly as the freckles and pairing easily with the permanent bone damage.

Michael sighed, seeming both proud and weary of his notoriety. “All of them except my thumb on my right hand. I still can’t move the middle one correctly, and it’s hard to hold a pen sometimes. I have to wrap bandages around them now and then, since there’s a lot of split nerves and the skin is pretty sensitive. Gloves work too, but they kind of limit my movement. I'll have to get Gavin to do it later, cause it hurts like a bitch right now. He's around here with Geoff, somewhere.”

He rubbed his knuckles tenderly, looking mildly irritated, but Ray was too focused on Michael's words to notice. A few key phrases were sticking out to him concerning Gavin and Geoff's relationship, and the way Geoff had chastised Gavin yesterday was all too familiar.

“Is Geoff…” Ray hesitated, trying to fit pieces together in his head. “Is Geoff Gavin’s father?”

Michael gave a soft chuckle as he wiped his hands on his pants. “Sort of, yeah. That’s private info though, so don’t make me regret the sharing and caring session.”

Ray shrugged, downing the rest of his water and feeling immensely better because of it. “Fair enough. So, what happens now?”

Michael leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets, and studied Ray for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m going to show your targets to Geoff, and see what he thinks. I don’t know if Ryan made contact with the Vagos yet, but if he has, we’ll have to pass on the results. They may even send someone over here to watch you in action, see if you’re worth our debt.”

Ray paused, feeling his heart sinking. It still felt unreal what he was about to do, and what was about to be done to him. He had a fool's hope that, after yesterday, his situation may have changed in his favor, but it had been a weak idea, supported only by Michael's reluctance and Ray's generally optimistic outlook on life.

“Do you think…?”

But Michael shook his head immediately, knowing what Ray had intended to ask before the words had even formed on his tongue. 

“We’re a crew, but I don’t hold majority vote. I’m only one of five, and 80% of the crew want to see you traded for a clean slate.”

The blatant revelation that Michael didn’t want this deal to happen was soothing, but it didn’t make Ray’s future any less painful. He was right. Michael could argue and plead all he wanted, but if he wasn’t able to change everyone’s minds, especially Geoff’s, then there was no hope that Ray could break the chains of his impending trade.

“I mean…what would you do anyway, right? If we let you go?”

It cut a bit, to hear, especially when it came from Michael, but it sounded sad rather than condescending. Guilty, even. 

“True,” Ray sighed. “It’s not as though I have a place to go back to. Or a job. And I assume you sold my car?”

Michael rubbed the back of his head, staring at the floor. “Chop shop. Jack took it late last night. Sorry, I didn’t even know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ray replied, looking away. He was bitter again, anger filling his heart and corrupting the small joys he had experienced yesterday. It was a swift turn, and the frustration that sat heavy in his gut was unusual and discomfiting. “It was a shit car. A shit life, really. Should have known I’d never make it out of this city.”

“Dude,” Michael started, and there was that trace of guilt again, weaving through Ray's discomfort and trying to tie together a promising hold on reality. It didn’t fit Michael's face, and Ray found it jarring. Genuine, but jarring. “I’m sorry. I really am. I never meant to fuck you over. Normally the people who get caught up in shit like this are crack heads, whores, pissed off idiots… generally a waste of oxygen. You seem like a good dude. I’m... sorry I ruined that for you.”

Ray couldn’t take the awkward apologies anymore. He knew it made his heart feel less heavy, but it wasn’t going to do anything for him, not in the long run. He wasn’t going to let himself get carried away by short-lived satisfaction, especially from the guy who had torn free will away from him. He stood up.

“Can I go with you, when you take those to Geoff? Or do I have to stay here?”

Michael shrugged, looking as equally relieved as Ray felt about changing the conversation. “I don’t see why not. Want some mints? I know you don’t have like, a toothbrush or anything here.”

“You carry around mints with you?”

Michael gave him an odd look, almost patronizing, and Ray felt that same swoop of the tainted friendship that he'd wracked his brain last night trying to define. 

“Obviously. Sometimes you get blood in your mouth. Also it’s really hard to threaten somebody when your breath is rank, so always be prepared.”

“Solid advice,” Ray muttered, reaching out to take an offered mint. “I can tell you that the last time someone was up in my personal space, threatening to blow my brains against the wall, I was so,  _so_ aware of his insanely fresh breath.”

Michael smirked. “You’re welcome.”

The infirmary was bright, cracks of light refusing to be shut out by the boards against the windows, and it allowed a sense of calm to envelope the room. The cots were empty, clean and fresh, and Ray wondered how often they had to use them to patch themselves up. Did they ever sustain injury severe enough to go to the hospital, or did that Jack guy have medical training beyond general first aid? There was a distinct lack of professionalism in their voices and attitudes, but this crew seemed to be intelligent, tactful. They inventoried their warehouse and were overly cautious about infiltration and betrayal. Except for Michael, it seemed, who didn’t even bother to see if Ray was behind him when he started climbing the stairs. Ray followed closely though, trying to act as unimposing as possible to avoid more ropes around his wrists. 

The second floor wasn’t nearly what he was expecting. They had barricaded most of it off, diminishing the size considerably, and it felt almost homely, for an office. Plush couches were placed around a large, luxury television, and whiteboards lined the walls; printed papers and photographs were tacked up against them, with scribbled notes stuck beside them on sticky paper. It was brightly lit, and the table in the middle had food laid out across it, mostly pastries and fruit, with two large, expensive looking bottles of wine. 

Geoff sat at a desk behind a computer, an open bottle of whiskey beside him as his eyes scrolled across the screen in earnest interest. Gavin was draped across a sofa, a beer in his hands as his glassy eyes watched cartoons dance across the television. 

“Morning,” Michael announced casually as they entered, and Gavin’s head shot up. 

“Heeey, Michael, come have a beer with me.”

Michael smirked, but didn’t reply. Geoff hadn't reacted when Michael announced their entrance, but he was watching them with a sharp gaze as they moved into the room. 

“Michael,” he greeted, and looked at Ray. “Why isn’t Narvaez in handcuffs?”

Ray felt annoyance prickle in his stomach. 

“Yeah, Michael, why not? Worried that all the knowledge I gained from Jackie Chan movies will outdo your years of experience?”

It was a shot a Geoff, blatant mockery, but Ray didn’t care. What more could they do to him that they hadn't done already? Besides kill him, obviously, but a large part of him doubted the severity in that threat. He didn’t necessarily feel safe, but as a whole, they seemed to respect him more when he didn’t put up with their shit. And they had given him an unnecessary amount of it, all things considered.

Michael laughed, but Geoff only gave him a once over before going back to his computer. “You watch your mouth unless you want Ryan to babysit you instead. Michael, if this turns out to be a bad idea, I’m putting you on surveillance for a month.”

“No you won’t,” Michael smiled, and the ease of his humor gave Ray the confidence to take another shot in the dark. 

“Can I have a beer?”

They all looked up at him, blank stares and curiosity unspoken on their tongues. Even Gavin’s head popped up over the sofa to cock his eyebrow at him. Ray shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling like a defiant child. 

“Look, I got pulled into this shit storm, and I don’t really drink that much, but I feel like if I’m  _not_ going to be murdered here, and you’re just going to trade me off after ruining my whole fucking life, the least you can do is let me sit on the couch and have a goddamn beer.”

There was a split moment of silence, before Gavin grinned at him. 

“Oh, I’ve changed my mind Geoff, I think I like him.” He motioned Ray over, gesturing to the remainder of a 12 pack by his feet. “Come over here with me, I’ll set you up.”

Dazed at his own bravery, Ray shuffled past Michael, who was staring at him with something akin to disbelief and impression, and made his way to the couch to sit next to Gavin. 

This was the closet he had been to another crew member, and Ray was uncomfortably aware that it felt similar to being in the company of a celebrity. There was something dazzling about the man next to him, who was smiling as he opened another beer, holding it out for Ray to take. His clothes were as pristine as yesterday, a button down shirt that would have been dressy to others but looked casual on him, and the very air seemed to spark around him, like the static before a shock. Ray realized that, for the first time since yesterday, he was nervous. 

He took the beer gratefully, avoiding touching Gavin’s hand in case it truly did shock him, and immediately took a large swig. It was a stout, definitely not what Ray preferred, but the slight burn made him feel at ease, and he finally understood that 'liquid confidence' that everyone chattered about. He looked back at Michael, who was leaning over Geoff’s desk and unfurling the targets, but turned away before they could catch him staring. 

Gavin was watching him carefully with a smile that seemed to never leave his face. There was a gleam across his eyes, and Ray realized that he was drunk, though it couldn’t even be noon yet. 

“Michael told me about yesterday,” Gavin said, taking another drink. “Said that he’s never seen anything like you, what you can do. And you say you’ve never held a gun?”

Ray followed suit and took another hard drink, too hard, and it hurt him to swallow. The new knowledge that Michael had bragged about his talent weighed heavily, and he was finding it hard to ignore. His nerves were setting in again, but he didn’t want to let them show this time, and struggled to keep his face from reacting. He couldn’t lose his cool like he did yesterday, when he blew up at Geoff and embarrassed himself. He needed to process more, keep his thoughts paced and react more intelligently. 

“Never held one until I killed that guy yesterday,” Ray replied, trying to sound much more at ease than he felt. He still hadn’t gotten that rush of guilt and terror that you were supposed to get when you took someone’s life. He was waiting for it, waiting for it to pop up at an inappropriate moment and send him into a breakdown, but more prominently, he was waiting for himself to prepare for the fact that, maybe, he wasn’t ever  _going_ to feel guilty.  He took another drink. He  _needed_ another drink.

“Oh, right. Bruce.”

Ray’s head shot up, but Gavin had focused on the television again. 

“Wait,  _Bruce?_  You guys knew him?”

“Yup,” Gavin smiled, making a popping noise as he pronounced the word. “Him and Michael, they’d been going at it for months now. I’ve never seen two people so legitimately annoyed at each other. He kept showing up at our heists to fuck with Michael, try and catch him by surprise.”

Ray was reeling a bit, but he kept himself pulled together. Who had this guy been? Was he in a different gang? Did he have a family, people who loved him? People who would want vengeance and come after his killer? He swallowed the thought with another drink and refocused his questions.

“How come Michael never killed him?”

“Ah,” Gavin replied, waving his hand. “He was always focused on the mission, making sure we got out. Bruce was more of a nuisance than anything. A fucked up one, sure, the things he did to people…” Gavin trailed off, his eyes alight, as though he relished in the thought. “Well, he wasn’t to be taken lightly, but Michael just never wanted to give him the time. He tried to hurt a few of us, just to get under Michael’s skin, but it never played out like he wanted. He wasn't the first guy to follow Michael around, either, but he did last the longest. Honestly, I think there’s a bigger story there, but sneaky Michael won’t let me in on it.”

Ray swallowed as Gavin grinned at him, and they both easily downed their beers. He shot another glance at Geoff’s table, where Michael was whispering heatedly to his boss, fingers pointed at the targets spread across the desk. Geoff’s eyes were lost on the papers, as though impressed, but the look on Michael’s face didn’t give Ray much hope. 

“Glad you took him out though,” Gavin continued, leaning down to open two more beers. “By the way it sounded, you saved Michael’s life, and for that, I owe you. We all do.”

Ray drank to that, words finally failing him. They sat in silence for only a few moments before Gavin leaned forward, blocking Ray’s view of Michael and forcing him to focus. “Let me ask you something though?”

And Ray nodded, hardly feeling like he had a say in the matter. 

“When you brought Michael back…” Gavin paused, and his fingers curled around his bottle. “Why did you do it? Why didn’t you just leave him there, you know, take the money and run?”

Ray shifted uncomfortably. This question was coming up a lot, and Ray felt like he should probably start having a good answer for it. 

“Would  _you_ have left him there?”

Gavin let out a soft exhale of laughter. “No,” he said, smiling around his beer as his voice dropped. “No, of course not, but I have much better reasons for bringing him home.”

Ray was curious, but he didn’t feel as comfortable posing questions to Gavin like he did Michael. There was a certain air about Gavin that implied he had a little  _too_ much information, more than Ray would want to know, and it was completely unnerving. Ray sat with him in a quasi-comfortable silence, eyes glossing over the television until he could feel Michael approach them and looked up, finding no promises on Michael’s face, only irritation. Anger.

“Come on, I’m taking you back to the range,” he said, motioning for Ray to rise. There was a fire in Michael’s eyes, and Ray obeyed blindly and without question, feeling a little ridiculous in his apparent haste to behave. Gavin groaned in disappointment beside him.

“Ooooh, let me come, Michael, I’m so  _bored_.”

“Gav, you’re drunk.”

“Also, yes. But, hear me out,” Gavin started, pulling out a keycard from his back pocket and waving it maddeningly in front of his face. “Remember who checks out your mags, love.”

“Goddamnit, Gavin,” Michael cursed, but he was smiling, and Gavin jumped up happily, if not unsteadily. 

“Wonderful! I want to see the prodigy firsthand,” he slurred at Ray, who felt his stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of an audience, especially one as unsettling as Gavin. “I’ll get some stuff and meet you up there. What do you need, Michael?”

“Basics,” Michael replies, and shoots a dark look at Geoff against the far wall before adding, in a whisper. “And get a few of those .300 Win Mags. We’re going out. Keep quiet about it.”

Gavin’s eyes went wide, and he smirked. He moved quickly and cupped Michael’s jaw hard in his hands and kissed him, a quick slide of lips that bordered just beyond chaste, before slipping out the door, giving Geoff a casual wave goodbye. 

Ray, trying to wrap his head around what the  _fuck_ had just happened, didn’t realize Michael was waiting for him until Michael kicked him sharply in the calf, urging him towards the door. Ray jumped, moving immediately and on autopilot, his thoughts flowing so rapidly he could barely keep up with them. He  _had_ seen that, hadn’t he? 

They were just at the door when Geoff called out to them, “Michael, I’m serious. You keep him in this building, and under  _no_ circumstances is he to leave. He doesn’t belong to us.”

Michael bowed his way out dramatically, shoving Ray forward and making sure to slam the door on Geoff as hard as he could. He turned to meet a disgruntled Ray on the stairway, who shook his head at him, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“You insubordinate fuck.”

Michael smiled, giving a soft laugh that circled around Ray and filled him with that same contentment he felt yesterday. But it was short-lived as Michael tugged on his arm, pulling him down the stairway.

“Come on, we have to hurry.”

“Where are we going?” Ray asked, struggling not to stumble on the stairs. 

“Out. To see what you can really do.”

 

///

 

Ray learned quickly that having a gun pointed at him was far less terrifying than Michael’s driving. 

They had met up with Gavin in the foyer, where him and Michael were nothing but grins and teenage-like defiance as they grabbed Ray and Gavin’s duffel bag and bolted out of the back door, straight into an open garage. Ray had only moments to marvel at the sleek white that embossed a car that would have taken him lifetimes to afford before he was being shoved violently inside. 

He sat in the backseat for 20 minutes, watching his knuckles turn white as Michael recklessly sped past lanes of traffic at what was easily 40 over the limit. But it was simple to him, fluid and practiced, and Ray pushed aside his terror for a moment to truly admire what was unmistakably Michael’s talent. The wheel turned sharp and steady at Michael’s every whim, fingertips ghosting across the curve like he knew every aspect, every nuance. He’d take his eyes off the road to smile as Gavin spoke, unconcerned at the danger, the peril, and Gavin laughed along at his own jokes. Both of them rested against the seats, bodies unchecked by seat belts and far past seeing the world outside of Michael’s car as a tangible thing. 

It was almost a comfort, to see them so secure and indifferent, and Ray felt his fingers loosen slightly from the seat cushion, felt his muscles relax. He took a deep breath and claimed his fear, let it dissipate beneath him as it was replaced with the friendly banter of the two people in front of him. Gavin’s phone rang, but it was ignored, and their unconcerned laughter was the first glimpse of true happiness that Ray had seen in a long time. 

There was a pang in his heart, a small bubble of hope that one day, he could find that same comfort in life. The same joy. To be  _content,_  like the two of them, despite the chaos they lived.

Their ride came to an end somewhere around northern Blaine County, first through a side trail, then seemingly at Michael’s own discretion, winding across the grass and dirt and through trees with expert handling until he stopped the car at the base of a deep valley. Gavin exited immediately, if not a little unsteadily, and Ray realized this must have been a usual destination for them. 

Michael, however, turned in his seat to stare Ray down, eyes ghosting across Ray’s fingers, which were still gripped loosely on the edges of the seat.

Michael smirked, easily reading Ray's discomfort, "Don't tell me you've never had a fast ride, Senor Sip'n'Go."

Outside the car, Gavin’s shout of “Heyooo!” didn’t go unnoticed, and Michael rolled his eyes. Ray stole a glance at outside at Gavin and realized he had brought a flask with him and was drinking greedily from it.

Ray sighed, “Here you are making jokes, and yet I could have pulled a knife on you while you drove.”

Michael cocked his head, curious. “Kill the driver going 110 MPH? Not your smartest move.”

He hardly thought of the inclination in his words when he responded, on instinct, “Well,  _not_ killing you hasn’t been working out too well for me so far.”

Michael smiled at him again, and Ray cursed him for always having the upper hand, despite what Ray could say. The leather seat squeaked as Michael shifted to lean closer, perpetually undisturbed by Ray’s unfounded, innocent threats. 

“You might want to wait on offing me until you see what I have in the trunk.”

There was another drunken giggle from Gavin, and Michael threw open his door, making an exit motion towards Ray with the distant warning of, “Oh, and if you scratch my car, I’ll feed you to mountain lions in very, very small pieces.”

The fresh breeze on Ray’s face was like a breath of life, and he inhaled the world around him deeply, thankful to be out of that building, if only for a moment. Michael’s footsteps crunched the ground beside him as he walked behind his car, shifting through his keys until he found the one he needed. 

Suddenly, Gavin was beside Ray, and there was a small pressure on the base of his back. Ray startled, convinced it was the barrel of a gun, but Gavin giggled, moving to press the whole of his palm into Ray instead of just his fingers, and Ray relaxed, if only slightly. 

“Jumpy, are we?” He asked, but proceeded to lead Ray by the arm over to where Michael stood. 

“To be fair, I’ve been threatened with my life for a solid 24 hours now, I think you can give me a pass.”

“Gavin,” Michael started, unlocking his trunk and pulling the top open. “Save the flirting for the after parties, yeah? And go set the targets, drunky.”

Gavin cursed slightly under his breath, but released Ray’s arm and turned up towards the valley, quickening his pace to a distorted jog. Ray was keen on the idea of watching him, waiting for the inevitable tumble, but the look on Michael’s face as he gazed into the contents of his trunk drew his attention quickly, and he moved to stand beside him. 

“Whoa,” Ray muttered, looking down at the massive arsenal of weapons laid out before him, each one with a designated, perforated space. “This is some Supernatural shit.”

Michael chuckled appreciatively, and ran his fingers across the closest rifle. “Except we do a lot more damage. Now, which one looks the prettiest to you? You’re up first.”

Ray stepped up, eyes glossing over the layout before him. The spectacle was breathtaking, and despite his earlier nerves, there was an excitement blossoming in his stomach, and an ache in his fingers, a withdrawal he hadn’t been able to put behind him. He wanted to  _feel_ again, and compared to the first mild taste of this drug he had gotten, this was the hardcore stuff, the things he only saw in movies, heard in the far distance of downtown. 

Instinctively, he reached out for the first thing that caught his eye. A rifle, lighter in color than the rest, with a thicker body that didn’t sacrifice sleek design. He expected Michael to push his hand away, to deter him from handling anything, but he only watched as Ray extracted the rifle from its insert and held it gingerly in his hands, examining it in ways that were borderline pornographic. 

“That’s a SCAR, a good choice for you. It’s made for customization, and people with talent, well, they like to customize their shit.”

Ray tried to swallow the strange surge of pride at the compliment. Michael was speaking to him as if he had already mastered something, as if he were already surpassing him, despite only having those few hours to judge him. It left him winded, a little dazed, and he felt the heavy weight of the rifle become lighter in his hands. 

“You’re really going to let me shoot this?”

His bewilderment was potent, and he tore his eyes from the rifle to watch Michael’s reaction. But there was no hesitation there, no second guessing, and his eyes still held that deep spark of fire that never really seemed to go out. 

“Hell yeah I am. I want to see how you do… probably way more than you do, actually. I doubt you just ‘got lucky’, and if there’s untapped potential there, then I want to see it. Hand me that.”

Ray did as he was told and passed the rifle over, watching as Michael took it with practiced ease. 

“Alright. Grab the duffel bag that Gavin brought, I have a surprise for you. I need to disassemble first it next time, because I could barely fit it in the fucking trunk.”

Ray, curious, followed Michael’s instructions, taking ridiculous amounts of precaution to shut the door gently on what was easily a half million dollar car. When he drew eyesight with Michael again, the redhead was lifting something out of the bottom compartment of his modified trunk. 

Ray’s breath stopped short. 

“Are you fucking joking?”

Michael grinned at him, handing Ray back the SCAR to better carry the four-foot sniper rifle he had just extracted. 

“AWM, baby.”

“You can’t fucking expect me to fire that,” Ray replied, completely nonplussed. “That thing will destroy me.”

“Most things in this city will,” Michael said with an unworried shrug, watching Ray carefully as he lifted the duffel bag and swung it across his shoulders. “Try not to dislocate your shoulder though, you won’t be of very much use if you do.”

With his heart hammering, Ray remained in his stunned silence and followed Michael up the valley, the SCAR in his hands the only thing truly grounding him to the new world he was about to embrace. And for all his fear, all of his trepidation, the weapon in his hands gave him a new rush of adrenaline, a surge of desire, a craving that surpassed any he had ever known. His fingers curled around the weight in his hands as he tried to hide a smile that was so self-serving and satisfied, he felt a little guilty.

Well, almost. 


	7. 07

Gavin had posted targets along the upper half of the valley, easily 200 yards away from the large crate Michael had stopped them next to. Ray watched as he set up the bipod and laid the AWM carefully on the ground several feet away, giving it an overly fond look before retreating next to Ray.  

“Alright. No burst fire today, just single shots. One  _pew_ , if you will.” 

Ray let out a breath of laughter, soft and vulnerable, and Michael glanced up at him. 

“Are you nervous?” 

“No,” Ray mumbled, running his fingers down the rifle. “I mean, a little, I guess, but I’m definitely way more excited than anything.” 

The look Michael gave him might have been appreciation, maybe even admiration, but Gavin came barreling across the dirt towards them before Ray had time to fine-tune the expression and get a read on it.  

“Alright, all done and good, Michael. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

Michael unzipped the duffel bag, hardly perturbed by Gavin’s attitude. “Hey, you’re the one that said you wanted to tag along. You have to work for your fun, Gav-o.” 

“I did work!” Gavin sputtered back, irritation scrawled across his face. “I spend all bloody night doing inventory, remember? I haven’t even slept yet!” 

Michael shot him a dirty look as he passed an incredulous Ray a loaded magazine. “Well you shouldn’t have fucked up the gas station run! My arm still hurts like a bitch, by the way, thanks for asking.” 

“Cunt.” 

“Spoiled prick.” 

“Dickhead. …Wait, you didn’t get me a gun?” 

Michael sighed and ran a hand across his face, agitation on his features. “You’re drunk, you idiot. No way I’m letting you handle a weapon." 

Gavin kicked a rock at Michael, narrowly avoiding Ray in the process, who was still standing there with an rifle and a loaded magazine, bewildered. "Never stopped  _you_. I’ve seen you shoot drunk loads of time.” 

“Well, I’m a much better shot than you,” Michael retorted, and the conversation dropped as Gavin sat down in the dirt next to Ray and pouted.  

Fingering the magazine awkwardly, Ray finally spoke out. “So, lover’s tiff?” 

Michael scoffed, “He wishes,” but the sight of Gavin crashed onto the ground in a sad heap of man seemed to soften his resolve, and he sighed, the exhale of a long-suffering man. “Alright, fine. Gav, you can shoot, but I’m going to stand with you. Last thing I fucking need today is a new bullet wound. Or for you to kill Ray before we can see him in the field.” 

Gavin perked up, grinning, and held out his hands for the SCAR. Ray hesitated, unwilling to hand it over, and Michael laughed.

“Possessive already, man?” 

“No,” Ray said, shaking himself and quickly handing over the rifle and the mag into Gavin’s outstretched hands. “Sorry. My bad. I just… sorry.” 

Michael was giving him that analytical look again, eyes with a curious sort of reckless fire as they lingered on Ray a moment too long, but Gavin nudged Ray with his elbow, demanding his attention.  

“Did you pick this out? Why a SCAR, man… piece of shit.” 

There was a split moment that Ray felt humiliated, before remembering Michael’s praise at his weapon choice and the inclination of Gavin’s generally less-than-impressive range skills.  

“Well, maybe you’re just shit at handling it,” Ray shrugged, praying that Gavin was too drunk to take a swing at him if the joke went south.  

Gavin tried to look affronted, but there was a sly smile in his voice as he spoke, “You’ve been hanging around Michael too much, I daresay.” 

Michael zipped the bag shut and stood up, gingerly flexing his wounded arm. “Hardly. He gives me attitude too, Gav, you can't always blame me when people realize what a dick you are." 

“You brought him here,” Gavin grumbled in reply, and there was a slight drop in his voice, a drip of resentment that made him sound almost bitter, and Ray swallowed uncomfortably. If the tone bothered Michael though, he didn’t show it, and proceeded to give Gavin the hand motion of  _get on with it then_. 

Ray was apprehensive as he watched Gavin line up the shot; even more so as Michael came to stand beside him instead of staying with Gavin as he said he would. Gavin’s stance was off, footing unsure and body seemingly wrapped around the rifle instead of extending past him. But when he fired his shots, his form barely moved; there was a flinch, but no jerks, and though Ray could immediately tell that Gavin was missing his marks by whole feet, there was a certain calm about him, an easy, practiced demeanor that seemed radiate a disinterest in improving himself rather than a lack of skill.  

Casings flew from him with every shot like searing-hot confetti, clinking on the ground behind him and giving a harmonious backdrop to the sound of each round firing through the barrel. Gavin was careless with his shots, firing the entire magazine within 30 seconds, hardly caring to line up his targets or analyze his mistakes. One of his final shots found its way into the wooden marker, splintering it into the dirt below as it crumpled to the ground.  

Gavin finally lowered the rifle, and Ray shook the ringing from his ears, trying to clear his head. Gavin was peering down at the targets, eyes glazed over with a drunken stupor.  

“I suppose I gotta go pick that back up?” 

“Yeah,” Michael replied, moving towards him cautiously. “And get your fucking finger off of the trigger, you moron.” 

Gavin examined the rifle, giggling slightly as he uncurled his trigger finger. “Right. Sorry Michael. Here.” 

He passed the SCAR to Michael, who was shaking his head in disbelief, before meandering down the field to right the marker he had shot down.  

“How long has he been with you guys?” Ray asked, waiting until Gavin was a sufficient distance away to avoid being overheard.  

“Gavin? He’s been here since the beginning. Him, Geoff and Jack started all of this.” 

Biting back further questions he had about the gang’s roots, Ray focused his train of thought. “So, is this just because he’s drunk, or…?” 

He felt like a bit of an ass for asking, but he was absolutely bewildered that someone who could have been pivotal in starting a street gang that was - judging by Michael’s car and the expanse of their armory - inclined towards making a considerable profit, could be so incredibly unconcerned with whether or not he was a good shot.   

“Nah,” Michael said, releasing the spent mag and bending down to fish out another one. “He’s always shot like shit. He’s arrogant though, refuses to try and get better at it. Just relies on someone else to get him out of trouble.” 

“So if he can’t shoot, what’s he good for?” 

Michael shot him a scathing look, and for a moment, Ray was frightened. The figure before him suddenly became imposing, a leather jacket that barely hid a strong, battle-tested body, eyes with a spark that could ignite a fire inside Ray, inspiration and passion, or below him, to burn him alive. And maybe Ray had become too comfortable in the past day, because for a dark moment, he remembered what Michael was - a force, unreasonable and chaotic. He was a criminal, a murderer, and a skilled professional, and Michael would never even need a reason to slice his neck open and watch the blood pool on the ground beneath him.  

Ray tried to quickly counter his mistake. “I mean, he’s important, right? I’m just wondering what role he plays. He gives me this uncomfortable feeling that he knows  _way_ more than he should.” 

Michael seemed to relax at that, as though his guard had been dropped, and Ray’s frantic heartbeat softened.  

“Good instincts on you,” Michael mumbled darkly, “…He’s an information broker. A very, very good information broker. And he can hack about damn near everything. He has a brilliant mind, if you bother to look for it. I’d suggest not getting on his bad side.” 

Ray bit his lip. The knowledge that people like Gavin existed outside of movies made him uncomfortable. Guns, sure. Gangs, absolutely. Mercenaries? He’d heard about them at the station, idiots walking through with big stories and loud mouths. Those were all things he saw in his daily life, but a criminal information broker? That was a new world entirely. That was big boy stuff, more advance than stealing and selling cars and shooting your neighbor for hooking up with your girl. He was nearly floored with the thought of what Michael's crew would need an information broker and a hacker for. Certainly it had to go beyond gas station robberies if they needed that kind of intel. What kind of a gang were they?  

“Are you guys–” 

But Gavin had returned, a little out of breath but pleased with himself. He stumbled towards Michael and ran a hand across the waistband of Michael’s jeans, leaning into him to counter his unsteady feet. Michael watched him curiously, unaffected, and Ray was once again struck with the feeling that he was witnessing something he shouldn’t be.  

“Imma go lie down in the car, yeah?” Gavin asked, and Ray finally realized that the haze in his eyes wasn’t completely the fault of alcohol. “I’m exhausted.” 

“Sure, yeah,” Michael replied, and it was softer than when he had spoken to Ray, and they both watched as Gavin walked back over to the back seat of the car and fell down face-first into the cushions and remained there, still and silent, completely passed out.  

“Hmm,” Michael hummed a smile, entirely bemused, before tearing his eyes away from Gavin to focus on Ray. “Alright man, you’re up.” 

Ray’s heart jolted as he was handed the SCAR back, feeling the cool exterior against the sparks of nerves that had become his fingertips. The weight was balanced in his hands, heavy and oddly familiar, and somehow, Ray’s breathing became easier despite the pulse in his throat.  

“The same as Gavin?” 

Michael nodded. “It’s harder to shoot if you don’t have anything to brace yourself against, but I’m skipping the basics with you.” 

“I’m flattered.” 

“Good, then don’t disappoint.” 

Yesterday, Ray would have been nervous, terrified even, of failing. The thought of being watched, presented, and evaluated had been both alarming and gut wrenching, but today, miraculously, it had changed. The confidence of yesterday had glossed over him, filling his heart with pride and his mind with an undeveloped sense of superiority. The knowledge that he could do this outweighed the former worry of failure. He knew he could. He had  _seen_ that he could.  

Now, rather than wanting to prove it hadn’t been a lark, he felt nothing but the drive to prove that yesterday was only a warm up.  

Ray took his stance, his body falling easily into the position that Michael had given him yesterday, with all of his joints clicking into their rightful place. He raised his arms, braced the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, and gave Michael a swift look that he hoped would convey his need for reassurance without having to verbalize it. Michael hardly needed it, and was at Ray’s side in one quick, fluid movement. 

His hands came up to adjust the rifle, pressing it close into Ray’s body. “The more grip you have on this, the more control you have,” he started explaining immediately, voice taking on the same professional air it had yesterday. “Keep the stock pressed right into your shoulder - here - and keep it close to yourself. Make the rifle part of your own body, rather than a tool." 

He adjusted Ray’s arms, and Ray let himself be moved into a more comfortable position, only slightly embarrassed that he was being coached again. "What’s Geoff going to think when he finds out you took me out to the middle of nowhere and gave me an assault rifle with live rounds?” 

Michael shrugged, a cocky smirk on his face. “I guess I’ll deal with that when the time comes, won’t I? Hopefully he’ll be so impressed with your results, he’ll forgive me. I might bake him an apology cake. The dude loves cake.” 

Ray looked up at him, startled. “As long as you bake him a cake, he’ll forgive you for putting the lives of two of his crew members in danger? You’re kidding, right?” 

Michael moved behind him slowly, calculated, and placed his hand on Ray’s head, pushing it down until Ray’s cheek met the cold chill of the gun, helping to line up his eyesight with the scope. The atmosphere changed around them, and Ray was far too aware of the impetuous sparks of danger that were lighting up his instincts as Michael moved around him, purposeful, leaving Ray feeling exposed and vulnerable. Michael’s hand curled in his hair just slightly, keeping a heavy weight there to prevent him from moving, and he shifted forward to make sure Ray could hear him. His voice was venom. 

“I put the lives of this crew in danger for a living, Ray. But who do you think is able to get them out? I'll admit that I make a habit of underestimating people, but don’t flatter yourself and assume that you are of the same caliber of danger that I am. Geoff won’t be mad because you’re a threat, he’ll be mad that I had to fucking waste you before you even got your weapon lined up, and frankly, you’d be lost cash.” 

He pulled back and Ray, shaken, tried to keep his body steady and in position.  

“This will have more kick,” Michael explained calmly, his voice having lost it’s edge and fire as he continued like normal. “So be prepared for it, and let your body absorb it. Don’t let it jerk you around.” 

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Ray muttered darkly, his sarcasm and nerves getting the better of him in lue of Michael’s mood swing. “Am I good to go?” 

Michael nodded, and Ray focused his attention to the target before him, feeling smug with irritation and unsettled nerves, and picking out the one furthest from him. The rifle was already starting to feel heavy in his arms, but the hold was comfortable, and he pressed his cheek into the stock to better see the scope.  

The moment his eyesight was focused, he felt that same tug of a new reality creeping through him. The world seemed to hollow, and there was only his breathing, a narrow path of existence that contained only him and his target. He moved his finger to the trigger, felt every breath going through his lungs, every pump of blood through his heart. There was no rush, no urgency, and time slowed until all he knew was the weightlessness of the world and the rifle in his hands.  

He squeezed the trigger gently, just as Michael had told him.  

The first shot rang out, and the brass was flung carelessly past his right shoulder, ignored. He felt the jerk of the rifle against him, but it was contained, pleasant even. A controlled power that he wielded and contorted for his own bidding. He heard the splintering of wood as the target cracked, and the second shot split it in two. He moved to the next target, barely seconds of hesitation as his eyes sought out the red markers in a valley of green and brown. One shot took it down. Two for the next, and one for the fourth, until all that remained was a low layer of dust and spent wood.  

And finally, he breathed.  

He removed his finger and shifted upright, allowing the world and everything meaningless to resolve into focus again, colors and sounds that had been mute and distorted were bright and blaring again. And Michael was there, next to him, as though he had never moved away, and his eyes were alight with something akin to joy. 

“Remember when I said I underestimated people?” 

Ray shook himself slightly, still trying to get a grasp on the present and the shattered targets, to realize what he had just  _done._  He muttered a strangled reply of assurance.  

“Well,” Michael continued, and his voice was so surprising. “I think I might have been right about you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Killing you would be a waste of some great goddamn potential.” 

“Oh?” Ray asked, pressing the rifle into Michael’s waiting hands and trying not to feel humiliated about the ache in his muscles. Michael’s large arms suddenly made much more sense. “And have you been thinking about killing me and just now decided against it?” 

“Hardly. I’m the one trying to keep you alive, remember?" 

“-Says the only person who’s ever put a gun up to my head.” 

Michael waved him off. “You were being kind of a dick that day.” 

“ _I_  was being a dick?! You broke into my home, fucked my house up, and stole my money!“ 

Michael raised his arms in fake exasperation, the rifle still held in one of them. "I asked you first! Could have just killed you, you know.” 

Ray rolled his eyes. “Gee, how awful in comparison to being sold as a fucking meat bucket.” 

“Ah, shut up, you’re having fun,” Michael smiled, and Ray couldn’t deny he had a valid point, so he dropped his argument, and Michael changed the subject. “So, ready to test your skills as a sniper?" 

Ray scoffed, "Hardly. I still can’t believe I just shot a military grade rifle, and hit every fucking target. Best bet is to excuse me for a couple of days so I can try and figure out what the CIA implanted me with.” 

Michael studied him, head cocked slightly, “You mean like, Jason Bourne shit?” 

“Yeah, exactly! There’s no way this is real life.” 

Michael chewed the inside of his lip before smiling. “Well, even a fuckwad like you needs to be good at something, right? It’s fairly obvious you’re not business savvy, or good with the ladies, or anything else that might land you somewhere nice. You’re quick-witted though, I’ll give you that.” 

“Oh good,” Ray rolled his eyes. “Quick wit and good with a gun. That’ll be sure to get me a beaming future.” 

“It would here,” Michael countered, “You’d actually fit in really well with the rest of us.” 

The silence that followed was one of the most astounding that Ray had ever endured. It was awkward, nervous, and yet somehow, it was promising and finalized. As though nothing more honest or raw had ever come from Michael’s mouth. Ray wondered, briefly, about that future; the one he’d be unable to obtain, the one that fitted in hopefully with that weird aching for friendship and lulled around in his chest at Michael's presence.  

Michael cleared his throat. “For real though, this is fucking incredible. You took down all of those markers, and I never even taught you how to move targets without fucking up.” 

“It wasn’t even that difficult,” Ray started, trying to shrug off the pride he felt.  

“I don’t care if it was fucking difficult or not,” Michael chastised, “You should be fucking proud of yourself. I’ve never seen anything like this before, like  _you_.” 

Ray grinned, but refused to meet Michael’s eyes, focusing instead on the rock he was trying to dig out of the dirt with his foot. “Paint me like one of your French girls, Michael?” 

And there was Michael’s shit-eating grin in response, dimming the world around him. As a reply, he jerked his head towards the ground in front of him, “Alright, smart ass, get on the ground. You’re going prone, it’s easier that way.” 

Trying not to let his nerves set in again, Ray did as he was told and sat his ass on the ground, waiting patiently. Michael grabbed the rifle and set it down next to Ray, lying on his stomach on the other side. Ray mimicked him, trying not to feel silly or awkward.  

“Alright, now, don’t expect to do well here. Being a good shot won’t make you a good sniper, and you’ll need a lot of practice to be able to shoot this the way you shot with the SCAR. Depending on the distance, there’s a lot of shit you need to factor in: wind, humidity, even the goddamn rotation of the Earth. There’s a lot of math that goes on in the heads of people that are intelligent enough to do this professionally. Don’t compare yourself to that.” 

Ray nodded, feeling taken aback, as though he had been knocked down a peg. He hadn’t realized all the mechanics that went into this, though the more he thought on Michael’s words, the more all of it made sense. Disappointment started to creep through his veins at the thought of not being as naturally gifted at this as he was with the previous weapons.  

Michael noticed, meeting Ray’s eyes and seeing the shift in mood. “Hey, I’m not saying you can’t get good. You have obvious talent, and that’s what you need more than anything. I just want you to be prepared that mastering this will probably take a little work, even for you.” 

“Do the Vagos even want me as a sniper?” 

Michael shifted uncomfortably at the subject, but Ray didn’t care. Michael had been the one to get him into this mess, Ray didn’t owe him any consideration on the subject.  

“No. They want a rifleman, for a covert fire team. They’ve got their team leader, their second in command, and a supply guy, but they need the scout. And if there’s anything the Vagos are lacking in, it’s skilled riflemen. All the good men are already preoccupied, running their districts and trafficking drugs and girls.” 

Michael paused to load a magazine into the AWM before pulling the bolt back.

“Between you and me, there’s something shady going on about all of this,” he said, lowering his voice. Ray watched him carefully over the rifle, eyes narrowed and attention focused. “I mean, the Vagos aren’t exactly team based, you know? They’re not clever, and they’re don’t work well with each other. Every district has it’s own rules and leaders, none of whom communicate with each other. But this… they’re trying to use military tactics here, pulling squads together and laying blueprints. I can’t figure out what it is they’re after, or why it’s important enough for them to put their best men at risk. They like drugs, they like women. They don’t bother with the high class shit, and they definitely don’t bother with covert operations.” 

Ray watched the discomfort grow on Michael’s face as he spoke, and his mind was spinning. He didn’t care about these people, the Vagos, but he wasn’t exactly looking forward to being part of a fire team, especially with so little training and experience. He’d no doubt be the first to die. Combined with Michael’s testimony that they’re a web of faux gangsters that are taking on a task beyond their skill level, Ray’s chances of survival were dwindling quickly.  

“So why are you going to teach me how to be a sniper, if all they want is a rifleman?” 

Michael smiled at him, and even if it was a bit broken, it still held that same spark of unrestrained chaos. Of ideas and plans that would only come to fruition in the deep recesses of Michael’s mind.  

“Well, they don’t really need to know what else you can do, do they? Never reveal your strengths and weaknesses. Be plain.” He stopped, but there was an edge in his voice, like that hadn’t been all he intended to say.  

“And…?” Ray prompted.  

“And be prepared to run like hell once you betray them.” 

Ray’s breath caught, but Michael wouldn’t look at him. He motioned for Ray to take hold of the rifle, which Ray did with some strange maneuvering and adjustments. He placed his cheek up against the padded butt of the weapon, with the end of it pressed against his shoulder, and looked through the scope, which was likely half the cost of the rifle itself. He pushed down all thoughts about what Michael had just told him and tried to focus on the task at hand.

“What am I going to be aiming for?” 

Michael got up and switched sides, lying down next to him and studying the valley before them. The majority the targets were easily closer than 200 yards, and all of them were splintered and broken across the dirt. “How do you feel about that water tower up there?” 

Ray followed Michael’s line of vision and looked up, towards the top of the hills, where a lone water tower sat framed against the sky.  

“How do I feel about it?” Ray joked, “Do I need to get in a proper mindset? Should I pretend it drowned my family?” 

“Alright, Batman,” Michael chuckled.  

“Does that make you my Robin?” 

Michael scoffed. “Please. I’m Nightwing, at least. Alright, so the water tower murdered your parents, and your old partner, who is vastly more attractive than you, by the way, has left you all alone to become his own vigilante. You’re angry, but effective, and you want revenge.” 

Ray tried to bite down his laughter as he looked through the scope and got a feel for the weapon his in his hands. There was no weight, which left his fingers free to find the perfect grip for his body.  

“This is bolt action, so you’ll have to pull back on this - here - after each shot,” Michael told him, pointing out various components of the gun as he spoke. “This is outfitted with parts that are going to help reduce recoil. Muzzle breaks. It’ll take away most of the flash as well, but watch out for your glasses, and try to keep everything steady. You’ve been good at that though, I probably don’t need to remind you.” 

He shifted closer and pressed up against Ray, who felt his heartbeat quicken. Michael pushed Ray’s body closer into the rifle and tightened Ray’s grip, turning to look at the world before them. “Conditions are perfect for you today. No wind, no clouds, no distractions. Shoot like you’ve always shot. I’ll be here to spot you, if you need it.” 

Ray nodded and focused on the scope again, slightly taken aback by how close everything was through it, but without losing the vivid textures of life. It felt unreal, and the warfare fanboy inside of him was threatening unleash itself. He tested the pull of the trigger on his finger and began to line up his shot, withholding the grin that was attempting to slip across his face. 

The water tower was a huge target, but he was hardly practiced. Even on the bipod, the slightest movement threw his shot several yards from where he had lined it up, and he was steadily becoming more aggravated the longer he spent trying to get control. He tried to steady his breathing and will the shakes out of his hands, but he had never felt so wound up.  

“Calm down,” Michael chastised. “You have all the time in the world. You are in control of that weapon, so wield it. Stop acting like this is beyond you, and make your fucking shot.” 

Ray wanted to be irritated at him, but the words sunk through his skin and down to his bones and calmed him, feeding his reckless desire to master the weapon in his hands. The next breath he took was controlled, and his body hardly moved. He aimed for the middle of the water tower, a large target area, and took a breath, waiting for the moment when there would be nothing but him, the target, and the trigger.

But Michael’s warmth at his side slid into the picture, and he hesitated. The additional presence was new, and he prepared himself to be taken from the moment, to be jerked back to reality, but instead the heat softened his body and grounded him. The feeling of Michael next to him steadied his will and his nerves, and when the world finally slid away from him, it was different. He was still connected to the ground beneath him, through Michael, without sacrificing his concentration on the shot. 

And in that moment, Ray could have sworn he’d be able to hit the target with his eyes closed.  

His finger pulled back on the trigger, and he felt the rifle shoot back into him, a dull pain on his shoulder but nothing more. The bullet was gone before Ray even thought about it, and on instinct, just as Michael instructed, he pulled back on the bolt and ejected the casing, eyes scanning to see where the bullet had gone.  

Michael was laughing, his eyes alight as he stared in the distance. “Holy shit, do you see that?” 

He pointed, and Ray, still surprised at himself, looked towards the tower, where a jet of water was spewing steadily from a hole in the side, barely a few feet from where Ray had been aiming.  

He frowned. “I meant to go more left.” 

Michael laughed again and clapped him on the back. “Glass half full man, come on. That’s fucking unprecedented.” 

Ray watched the water pour from the giant cylinder and tried to see it as Michael did. The tower was easily 600 or 700 yards away, and even though Ray had missed his exact target area, his results were still impressive. Definitely not something to be ashamed about. But still, as Ray struggled to watch the stream of water splash against the grass in the distance, the desire to be better still hung heavy in his mind, far overpowering his pride.  

“Want to go again?” 

He turned towards Michael, who was still laying unabashed in the dirt beside him. The grin on his face was reminiscence of a child’s on Christmas morning, full of delight and excitement. Ray wasn’t sure who was having more fun.  

“Yeah, alright,” he mumbled, unable to keep the smile from his voice.  

“Awesome,” Michael responded, pulling his phone out from his pocket to send a text. “We’ll finish off those .300 Win Mags we have here, and go get some lunch. We can come back after that, if you’re still interested in improving.” 

Ray didn’t respond. They both knew what his response would be.  

“You’re staying with me tonight, by the way.” 

The words sent Ray’s stomach straight into his gut and his heart to his throat. He shot Michael an incredulous look.  “Excuse the  _fuck_ out of you? What does that mean?” 

Michael shrugged, trying not to meet Ray’s eyes as he scrolled through his phone. “It means that you deserve a little bit of comfort before being handed over to the Vagos, right? And I’ve slept on my fair share of cots, mind you, but I’m certainly glad that I’ve upgraded. I’ve got a nice comfy couch with only a few bloodstains on it.” 

Ray scoffed. “Keep it classy, Michael.” 

There was a short silence as Ray ran his fingers across the rifle and tried to ignore the lingering tension in the air. Maybe Ray hadn’t responded as Michael intended? Sure, he’d love to not spend another night in the concrete jail cell, but he hardly dared to dream it was even a possibility.  

“You think Geoff is going to be okay with that? Or Ryan?” 

Ryan’s face bubbled to the surface of Ray’s mind, and he shook his head to clear it and the sudden fear that came over him. Michael shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I could always pull the 'you can't shoot well without a good night's sleep' card that Geoff always plays. And if he wants you to impress any potential representatives, you'll need better sleeping quarters, right? But hey, if you prefer the cot over a friendly competition on Gears of War tonight, I'm not one to judge." 

“No,” Ray laughed, and it was so genuine it scared him a bit. “No I’m definitely okay with Gears.” 

“Good,” Michael responded, trying to sound light-hearted, but the shake and pressure in his voice gave away his uncharacteristic apprehension. “So let’s finish off these few mags and get some high quality street tacos. My treat. Something tells me you’re not hiding a few hundred dollar bills in your pockets.” 

“Nah,” Ray smiled, lining up his next shot. “Some asshole stole all my money. Made me start shooting guns and breaking the law, and I got mixed up with a bad crowd.” 

Michael was grinning, but he kept his eyes focused on Ray’s target. Ray found his position and let himself zone out to the world around him again, nothing but him and the target, and yet, there was Michael again, filtering into his view and steadying him. Right as Ray took his shot, he heard the sarcastic mumble of “What a shame,” and his heart felt lighter.  

That time, Ray hit his mark.   


	8. 08

It doesn’t take long for Ray to realize that Gavin is a calamity, body and soul. The trunk was heavy with weapons and empty mags, but Gavin’s mood was light, flowing and reckless. As soon as the car had started he bolted awake, eyes bright with a fervor a 2 hour nap certainly shouldn't have given him. 

Initially, he pleaded with Michael to let him crawl out of the window and ride on the roof, to which Michael gave no response other than trying to inconspicuously lock the doors and windows. Undeterred, Gavin redirected his attention onto Ray, who was sitting casually in the passenger seat, drumming his fingers on his leg and effectively avoiding the previous fear that had ensued under Michael’s driving. 

“How old are you?”

Ray flicked his eyes towards Gavin in annoyance, only slightly startled to find that wild gaze looking back at him. Still riding the earlier high from his success on the range, he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of being interrogated again, despite how innocent it appeared. “Uh, 24.”

Gavin leaned in closer, forgoing the seat belt yet again to rest his head up against the side of Michael’s seat, retaining that uncomfortably deep gaze he continued to hold Ray with. “Do you have a family?”

“Everyone has a family,” Ray retorted, turning to look out the window at the flashes of colored cars. Michael was clearly speeding again. For a moment, he entertained the hope that Michael might slip up and send them careening into an early death, but the thought passed as easily as it came.

“So you don’t speak to them? Are they dead?”

“Jesus, Gavin,” Michael mumbled, but there was a quiet laughter in his voice. 

Ray drummed his fingers again, contemplating the pros and cons of discussing his personal life. Then again, Gavin was an information broker, and if he was as good as Michael claimed, chances were that Gavin already knew everything there was to know about him. More than Ray knew, maybe. More than he remembered, at least. 

He cleared his throat. “My parents live back east, in New York. I have two brothers and three sisters, but we don’t talk much anymore. It was dull; I was generally ignored in favor of their bratty behavior. I left with a friend at the first opportunity, we planned to start a business together here.” He paused, hoping his annoyance was clear enough to be a deterrent. “Anything else?”

“And what happened with that?” Gavin was invested in Ray’s story, clearly, but Ray couldn’t decipher if it was true curiosity, or patronizing. 

“He uh… he met a girl. They moved in together, and I moved to a smaller place. I tried saving money on my own for a down-payment on a business, but things just…kept happening. Shit would get stolen, my car would break down. Eventually I just tried to save enough to get myself somewhere else, to get myself out of here.”

Michael shifted uncomfortably at the reminder, but Ray ignored him. As childish as it was, it felt good to make Michael feel those twinges of guilt, a small, bitter aftertaste of how badly he had fucked Ray over. He knew he wouldn't be able to admit aloud, though, and somehow, the guilt was enough to placate Ray’s anger. 

Gavin  _tsk_ ed at him, shaking his head. 

“Do you still keep in contact with him? He never wanted to help you out?”

Ray shook his head, a pool of regret and disappointment settling deep in his stomach. “No, he was happy with his new life and all, I didn’t want to bother him. No more bachelor parties. We kept in contact less and less… I haven’t even heard from him in a few months.”

Gavin watched him curiously, his head cocked. 

“He’s dead, you know.”

Ray’s heart stopped, and it took him far too many seconds to remember how to breath to jump start it again. The air was sucked from the world around him, and for a moment, time stood still. His mind was nothing more than a haze of brain waves that were trying to connect Gavin’s words to reason. That sentence didn’t make  _sense_ , those words couldn’t be constructed in such a way. He looked towards Gavin, shocked, and saw Michael shoot the blonde a dirty look, full of reprimand. Ray’s fingers tightened on his knee. 

“That’s not funny. Why the fuck would you say that?”

“Andrew, right? Andrew Vasquez?”

Ray couldn’t even nod, his heart was beating through his chest. Gavin chewed his lip, looking thoughtful, but entirely unconcerned. “Yeah, died about three weeks ago, if I remember right, over by Broadway.”

Ray tried to keep his face straight, tried to process this information and how easily Gavin had dumped it on him. His head was still fuzzy, but a dose of reality was setting in, and while grief wasn’t far behind it, shock still permeated his body, and he chanced a glance at Gavin. 

The boy staring at him was a blank slate, no emotions registering on his features, and Ray swallowed thickly, entirely convinced that Gavin was the shittiest person he ever had the misfortune to meet. As he watched Ray, studied him, he opened his mouth to continue speaking, but was interrupted by Michael.

“Gavin, stop,” Michael mumbled, but Ray held up his hand. 

“No, keep going,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “What happened, how do you know? He’s  _dead_?”

“Please,” Gavin rolled his eyes. “As if we didn’t learn everything about you when you showed up. Rather mundane life, by the way. Can’t say I envy your  _vanilla_ existence.”

“Fuck you,” Ray snapped, turning his head to look back out the window to hide the sudden sting in his eyes. His mind had woken fully from it’s dazed state and was racing frantically, coupled sickeningly with the ache in his heart. Andrew’s face swam into view, his smile and his laughter, his shitty mixtapes and his penchant for gas station burritos that would stink up the car on their road trips. He should have called, texted him. He saw him online now and then, he should have sent him a party invite… anything. Was he really gone? Would they lie to him? And Liz, his poor girlfriend, how was she holding up? Ray should have been there with her, trading stories and tears. Why hadn’t she called him?

“He…” he choked on his words a bit, swallowing before he continued. “He had a girlfriend, Liz. Is she…?”

“Dead,” Gavin replied, pulling out his phone and scrolling through it. “They’re both dead as dicks, love.”

Ray nodded, turning back around so they wouldn’t see the sheen in his eyes. Minutes passed in silence as Ray worked through his grief, hardly concerned with Michael’s chaotic driving. He ran through all the scenarios that could have avoided this, ticking each one off in his mind like a slit in his throat, convinced that it was all because of him. He could have convinced Andrew to stay roommates with him longer, could have taken up Liz’s offer that they all move in together, privacy be damned. He could have invited them out that day. He could have been with them. Could have  _saved_ them.

Finally, Michael spoke, penetrating the silence that Ray had let engulf him. “Look, man. I’m sorry. Gavin’s pretty fucking tactless about shit like this. Your friends, they were getting take out, and a guy tried to hold them up, wanted the girls–”

“Liz.”

“…Right. He wanted Liz’s jewelry or purse or something. He - Andrew, tried to stop him. They were both shot.”

Ray remained silent for a moment, ignoring Gavin’s muttered, “Never be the hero…,” and let his thoughts race. He knew he should calm down, but his grief was quickly being replaced by anger. His trigger finger ached, and his arms were sore. His heart hammered. 

“Do you guys know who did it?”

Michael heard the tone in his voice and took his eyes from the road to meet Ray’s. One moment was all he needed to read Ray’s intentions, one moment of pure understanding between them. They didn’t blink, and Michael’s voice was quiet. 

“No. But we can find out.”

Ray nodded as Michael took the next exit, people on the street stopping to stare at the flash of chrome.

“I’d appreciate that.”

  
  
  
///

  
  
Tension hung heavy in the air as Michael parked against a curb, and there was no love lost on Ray when Gavin announced that he wouldn’t be eating with them. Ray exited Michael’s car and watched bitterly as Gavin hailed down a taxi, phone going to his ear without a backwards glance as his abandoned party. 

“Does he do that often?” Ray asked, and was happy to hear the contempt in his voice. “Just up and leave?”

Michael met up with him on the curb, watching the retreating taxi. “Yeah, if we’re in the area. His girlfriend works somewhere around here, I think, so he usually bails to go see her.”

“Girlfriend?” Ray about vomited out the word in surprise, and Michael raised an eyebrow at him. Ray tried to hide his embarrassment at the situation with a lackluster explanation, feeling far more foolish now that the words were finally leaving his mouth. 

“Sorry, I kind of thought you guys were…”

He gave a vague motion of connection, Michael returned it with an odd expression, a mixture of disturbance, disbelief, and amusement. “You’re none too bright, are you? Come on.” 

He led Ray past the nicer restaurants and bistros to stop in front of a small cart that had been decorated in bright green and yellow stripes with black lettering proclaiming “Lola’s Tacos.” The person behind the stand was clearly not Lola, but he was working hard to shovel tacos together for an impatient suit-bound man that was tapping his foot and glancing periodically at his watch. 

Michael turned to him as they waited, and Ray caught the split-second glint of his pistol tucked into his waistband as he moved. Michael was smiling, mischievous and delighted. “Wait, so you thought that Gav and I were dating?”

Ray shifted uncomfortably on his feet, feeling ridiculous, though he’s unsure why. He had a lot of proof to back up his theory, after all. “Well, you guys are… _touchy_. Plus you made out earlier before we left,” he added pointedly. 

Michael seemed to consider this, or he was merely patronizing Ray as his fingers stroked his chin in a quizzical fashion. “Well, alright, that’s fair… but we always say ‘no homo’ at the end of each day, so it doesn’t count.”

Ray was bewildered, and he couldn’t figure out if Michael was kidding or not before the businessman in front of them left hurriedly, mounds of tacos piled precariously in his arms, and Michael stepped up to the cart to begin ordering.

“What, I can’t even order my own food?” Ray asked, trying to emphasize the whine in his voice. 

“Nope, you’re under house arrest, remember?” Michael responded, handing the guy a crinkled twenty dollar bill. “Just because I let you outside doesn’t mean you’re off your leash.”

Ray rolled his eyes but didn’t comment further. His spirits had been lifted since Gavin left, and the feeling of being out in the chaos of the world was doing wonders for his demeanor. As actively as he was trying to find a way out of his problematic and death-inducing scenario, he no longer felt in a constant state of 'fight or flight’. Staying close to Michael seemed to be his safest bet, and despite their rather short, tumultuous history together, he legitimately felt that Michael is at least partially on his side. Everyone else was another matter. 

He knew that Geoff was the ringleader, the boss, and if Ray was to formulate any kind of plan, it would have to end with Geoff. He was the man to impress, and the man who has final say in all things, even if he did seem heavily influenced by his crew. He was dangerous, yet oddly approachable, and Ray didn’t dismiss the bizarre comfort he was able to read in the man’s eyes. It could be useful. 

Ryan, however, was different, and a remnant wave of discomfort folded over him as he remembered their only encounter. There had been nothing but a cold apathy in Ryan’s expressions and stance, and Ray was well aware that Ryan would sooner put a blade in his spine than listen to any arguments Ray could dream up. 

He hadn’t seen much of Jack since his initial meeting, though he still harbors resentment to the man that sold his car to the chop shop. And Gavin, well, while Ray’s anger at Gavin’s indifference was still stewing fresh in his mind, he knew how close his (apparently platonic) relationship was with Michael, and how incredibly helpful it could be. If he could convince Michael to help him find a way out of this mess, Michael would likely bring Gavin along for the ride, and that would mean a wealth of information. 

His thoughts stopped there as his mood soured. He was actively trying to keep Andrew’s face from the forefront of his mind, but Gavin’s dismissal of his life was burning a fire in his chest. 

“Who the fuck would date that prick anyway?”

If Michael was alarmed by Ray’s sudden outburst and change of mood, he didn’t show it, and instead reached out to take the two plates offered up by masculine “Lola,” handing one to Ray.

“Who, Gavin? Why, are you jealous? Because I can tell you right now, you want no part of–”

“No, I’m not  _jealous_ ,” Ray groaned, exasperated, and followed Michael to a bench. “He just… he kind of seems like a huge dick. Can’t imagine that’s the go-to quality that relationship seeking females flock towards.”

Michael took a bite of his first taco and allowed himself a small moan of pleasure before replacing it with a mildly contemplative expression as he chewed. “He’s not always a dick. He’s actually very kind, he’s just not…tactful, I guess you can say. He cares about the people he loves, and everyone else is just sort of…in his way. And as for your first question, do you really expect me to give you info on my coworkers private lives?”

Ray huffed in response, not entirely surprised by Michael’s answer, but no closer in finding out anything interesting about the information broker that wasted no time in digging into his own personal history. 

There was short silence as they ate, and Ray was content to enjoy the bustle of the street without actually having to interact. A few people were running late for meetings, briefcases swinging haphazardly as they sprinted towards their office buildings. Several young women walked by, giggling at something on a cell phone while their eyes scanned the windows of the stores around them. A larger woman walked a ways behind them, a small dog trailing after her and straining on his leash when he smelled the taco stand. As a whole, it was disorganized and busy, and Ray was disconnected from it, sitting next to the man who simultaneously ruined his life, yet somehow had found a way to make it worth something. 

“You should give him a break,” Michael said softly, startling Ray out of his stupor. He must have meant Gavin, and Ray didn’t respond. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he told you about your friend in literally the  _worst_ way possible, but he wasn’t trying to do it to hurt you, or to get a rise out of you. He just doesn’t think the same way that other people do. He’s out in left field, if you get me.”

Ray didn’t answer still, shoving the last bit of food in his mouth before throwing his plate in the can next to him. Michael showed no signs of following his example, however, and ran a hand through his hair. 

“I’m not saying this because he’s my friend and I don’t want you to be mad at him. Be fucking furious at him, I don’t care, it’s not my business. But…” he paused, and looked up to meet Ray’s eyes. There was a sadness there, and the conversation took a serious turn when Ray realized what he was about to say. “…If you really want to find that guy, the one who killed your friends, he’s going to be the only person that can help. Just keep that in mind.”

Ray nodded, and there was a strange tug in his chest as his thoughts turned to Andrew and Liz. They had been such a beautiful couple. Ray hadn’t seen Andrew smile like he did around Liz since the day Ray agreed to leave NYC with him. And Liz was the light in his life, laughter and promise. They hadn’t deserved death. Ray’s hands twitched at the sudden rage and discontent that filled him. Fortunately, his body didn’t betray him again, but the thoughts that wormed through his mind were carnal and ravenous, pushing him to seek revenge with an urgency he had never known. No, they hadn’t deserved death. And their mugger certainly didn’t deserve life. 

“Hey,” Michael interrupted his thoughts, shaking his shoulder none too gently. “ _Hey_. I know what’s going through your head right now, but take a few steps back. You get hell bent on avenging something, you won’t realize where you’ve gone wrong, then you’re dead on the pavement.”

Ray finally looked up at him, his anger softened at Michael’s empathy. “But I…”

“I  _know_ ,” Michael agreed, finally rolling up his trash and tossing it. “But you take this shit one step at a time. Scum like him stays in the city; he’ll still be here while you figure out your game plan. Besides,” he grinned and held up his car keys. “House arrest, remember?”

Ray rolled his eyes, but his rage had all but dissipated. Michael was right, of course. As much as he wanted to dish out karma to Andrew’s murderer, he was still learning how to handle weapons, and he hadn't the slightest clue how he would go about finding the killer, much less breaking into wherever he lived without setting off every security alarm in the vicinity. Not to mention that, as Michael so eloquently stated, decisions on his own life were currently out of his hands. 

“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Ray got up to follow him to the car, and watched with a small smile as Michael batted his hands at two girls who were taking pictures of the  _easily_ half a million dollar vehicle parked conspicuously on the curb. They giggled and kept walking, but Michael glared at their retreating backs, looking affronted that someone dared to approach his car so closely. He motioned for Ray to get in, still looking bothered and grumbling under his breath. 

“I meant to ask you about this… the car, that is,” Ray started as he shut his door behind him. 

“What about it?” Michael nearly snarled, but it was hardly as menacing as it would have been if it were directed at Ray personally. He started the car and pulled away from the curb as Ray tried to hide his amusement. 

“It just…it’s pretty flashy. Shouldn’t you lay low?”

Michael scoffed and checked his rear view mirror closely, and Ray could only assume that he was monitoring if they were being followed. 

“The cops don’t care nearly as much as you seem to think they do, man. There are so many crimes in this fucking city that they can barely keep the calls from breaking the phone lines. I might be high profile, but that doesn’t mean they give a shit about me any more than the few hundred other known criminals they pass up every day. Besides,” he turned to grin at Ray. “They know from past experience that I don’t go down that easy. They settle for the lower class criminals, people in their tier bracket.”

He smirked at his last comment and pulled onto the freeway, sliding between cars so easily that Ray could still hardly believe it was real. Something was sitting heavy in the bottom of his stomach though, and he steeled himself to voice his concern. “So you’ve…killed cops then? Law enforcement?”

Michael glanced at him, but only briefly, as if he wasn’t expecting the question. 

“Yeah, obviously. We run heists, man. Big ticket shit. Even if they’re out of their league, cops still have to show up for those calls.” Ray didn’t respond, and Michael seemed to sense his discomfort and lowered his tone. “You’re thinking about it the wrong way. The cops here, they’re not the vigilante heroes you see on TV. They’re cold blooded, and they kill just as many innocents as the criminals do.” He paused, biting his lip in thought. “Put it this way. If you had stayed in that apartment, they would have shot you on sight, hands down. No questions, no concerns. You watch out for  _yourself_ in this city, and for the love of God, don’t trust the fucking  _cops_ to take care of you. You got it?”

Ray, mildly alarmed, only nodded in reply. He hadn’t expected an honest response from Michael, especially not one as serious and focused as the one he received. He couldn’t clue in on whether there was a back story hidden in that tirade, or if Michael was just tired of the cop-worshiping that was, according to him, clearly undeserved. With a pressing need to change the subject, Ray cleared his throat. 

“So, where are we going?”

Michael looked as relieved as Ray felt with new line of questions, and relaxed slightly in his seat. “Well, considering we used up all the mags in an unprecedented display of your prowess, we have two options: We can go back and face Geoff’s wrath in person, or we can crash my place and face his wrath via Facetime. Any preference?”

Ray chewed his bottom lip, disturbed by the term “Geoff’s wrath” and how carelessly it was being tossed around. “I’m less likely to die if it’s over Facetime, right?”

Michael nodded, a small smile gracing his lips. 

“Alright then. Your place it is.”

  
  
  
///

 

  
  
For the past two days, Ray’s emotions could be chalked up to either fear, rage, surprise, or bleak helplessness. The last thing he had been expecting to feel, given his current circumstances, was unabashed envy. Really, the private level of the car garage should have given away everything Ray needed to know, but when Michael opened the door to his condo, Ray’s expectations were surpassed in every way possible.

The entire place  _screamed_ money, from the ceiling high windows to the stainless steel appliances, everything was modern, updated, and absolutely exquisite. The couches were lush, the counters granite and gleaming, and a perpetually glowing fire radiated a comforting warmth from the middle of the room. He saw a staircase leading downstairs, and marveled at the thought of there being  _more_ levels of a place so beautifully furnished that he hadn't even been able to dream of such luxury. It was easily the most expensive home he had ever been in, and now that he was here, he was entirely unsure of what to do. It wasn’t exactly the scenario Ray had imagined in his head, which had involved a derelict house, and maybe a few bulldogs. 

Michael strode forward and dumped his jacket across a cream couch, flipping on the television and watching momentarily as a car chase careened across the screen. He glanced back at Ray, looking slightly annoyed with Ray’s awe. “Come on man, at least sit the fuck down if you’re going to ogle. The hell’s your problem?”

Ray moved down the small staircase, tripping a bit on the last step, but he hardly had the mind to be embarrassed about it. He shuffled forward to stand by the window, gazing down at the city displayed before him, windows of office buildings reflecting the orange in the sinking sun and dots of colors moving across freeways. 

“This is…”

But his words faltered, and Michael sighed.  

“Yeah, I know. I paid a pretty penny for it, but if I’m honest with you, it’s a little irritating to show off. People just stand there, staring at the window and  _breathing_ jealousy.”

He motioned pointedly to Ray, who tried and failed to hide his smile. “It’s just, not what I was expecting from you. You seem a bit more…” He pauses, trying to think of the correct word. “Grunge.”

“Hey, fuck you man, I’m classy.”

Ray scoffed. “Oh yeah, the leather jacket goes great with your twenty thousand dollar wall decor.”

“Shut  _up_. I swear to God I’ll fight you.”

“Oh good, maybe some of the jewels from your diamond-studded brass knuckles will embed in my face, then I can pawn them afterwards and get some of my fucking money back.”

Michael laughed a curse under his breath and Ray smiled at his victory, his eyes still trained on the picture perfect view before him. The clouds that usually lingered in the mountains had all but burnt off this late in the afternoon, but the setting sun enveloped everything in a calm glow, and where Ray had only ever been able to see misery and abandonment, he was surprised to find such a dazzling display of beauty. 

He hardly noticed when Michael’s phone began chirping, too caught up in the sights, but he felt his stomach drop when Michael’s giddy laughter answered it.

“Oh, hey Geoff!” 


	9. 09

Ray went shock-still, as if Geoff's ability to pinpoint his location would be based entirely off of movement. Despite Michael's warning of Facetime, he held the phone to his ear, the video clearly off, and Ray was somehow grateful. Though Michael assured him that he would be able to placate Geoff's anger with confectionery treats, Ray doubted he'd be as forgiving to Michael's unfortunate "student" as he would be to a crew member. 

 

He thought of Ryan and withheld a shudder. 

"Yeah, Geoff, I've got him-- well I'd tell you if you'd just stop _yelling_ , old man--"

There was a pause, and Michael chewed casually on the side of his cheek, listening closely and throwing Ray a wink, which didn't comfort him in the slightest. He heard Geoff's less-than-dulcet tones pouring from the receiver, indistinguishable, but Michael seemed entirely unfazed as he waited for a break to get a word in.  

"Geoff... _Geoff!_ Of course it was for a reason. ...No, I wanted to see him on a real range, and you're too--" Another pause, and Michael turned away from him. "I know, boss. ...Yes, that's what I think. You _know_ how I feel about it--" 

Ray's heart hardened in his throat, and he tried desperately to catch some wind of Geoff's end of the conversation, going as far as holding his breath so the sound of his own exhale wouldn't be able to drown out any pertinent information. How Michael felt about what, exactly? Ray's trade? 

Michael suddenly turned back towards him, looking slightly anxious. "No, we'll be back soon. _Don't_ send Ryan, he'll get all psychopathy. ...No, that's _not_ what I deserve! You dick. ...Yes. Alright. ...See ya, boss."

Michael shifted uncomfortably as he hung up the phone, staring at the device in his hand for an awkward amount of time, as if he had lost himself in replaying the conversation. 

"So," Ray prompted, "Am I a dead man?"

Michael shook himself and smiled. "Nah. Well, I mean, yeah, but not within the next few hours at least. So, what's your poison?"

Ray raised his eyebrows in alarm, but Michael smiled, motioning for Ray to follow him into the kitchen. He casually began opening up cabinets above the luxury appliances, squinting slightly to read the labels on rows of half-empty bottles of alcohol. "I've got, uh, whiskey of course, looks like some vodka up there - for the ladies, you know - some good scotch... tequila, if you're feeling like keeling over anytime soon, and there might be beer in the fridge..."

He trailed off and his gaze went glassy, as though he was trying to remember something he'd only recently forgotten. "I think I have some weed leftover as well. No promises though."

He looked at Ray expectantly, and Ray could think of little else to do but shrug, caught up in the sudden whirlwind of Michael's personality, a facet he hadn't seen before. This was his home, where anything domestic can and _did_ occur, and Ray was struck dumb by both the gracious offers of what appeared to be top-shelf alcohol, and the blatant fact that it was barely past two in the afternoon. He was in Michael's _home,_ being offered a drink like an old friend. And as much as he'd really, _really_ like to get high, Geoff's harsh tones were still ringing in his ears, and he'd prefer to be as mentally sound as possible for the rest of the day. 

"Uh, I think I'll stick with a beer. Been a hell of a day."

Michael seemed satisfied enough, moving towards the fridge to pull out a case of Heineken, and Ray felt a strange surge of happiness. He preferred ales. Michael passed by him through the open floor plan of the condo and deposited the beer casually on the coffee table. Ray followed cautiously, still unnerved at where he was, still swallowing the _why_ , and watched as Michael winced and pulled the pistol from his jeans so he could fall graciously to the couch, arms outstretched as though he waited for heaven to take him. He groaned, heavy and detoxifying.

"Fuck man, I feel worn out and I haven't even done anything."

Ray chuckled lightly, pushing his nerves somewhere deep, and sat down on the couch opposite, staring purposely at the helicopter footage on screen to avoid letting his gaze linger on Michael, who was currently nothing but tattooed skin and a shadowed spark of danger, pistol on his lap.

"You must be getting old," Ray ribbed cautiously, pulling a beer from the case and twisting the cap off. 

Michael scoffed, eyes closed, and held out his hand for a bottle. "Please. Twenty-six is a prime age. Close enough to thirty to pretend you've got wisdom, and not far enough away from twenty to get you reprimanded for blowing the mayor's house up so the rubble looked like a smiley face."

Ray spat out his first drink of beer. "That was _you?"_

Michael opened his eyes and smirked as Ray wiped his mouth, taking the offered bottle from Ray's hands and twisting it open. "Why, did you like it?"

"It was..." Ray paused, thinking back to the day he remembered seeing the news coverage. It couldn't have been more than a year ago. It had been all over the local channels at the gas station, and Ray had watched in rapt fascination as helicopter cams flew over the remains of Mayor Barnes luxury estate, the building completely collapsed into what had to have been an intentional smile, with higher stacks of rumble making up the eyes and curve of the mouth. 

"It was amazing," Ray finished, grinning at the memory. "How the hell did you even do that?"

Michael downed nearly half of his bottle in one go, but the green filtered glass couldn't hide his prideful smile. "Lots of practice, man. Lots."

Ray followed Michael's lead and chugged a good portion of his beer, feeling slightly winded afterwards but enjoying the tingle of his lips. The newscaster on TV was exclaiming loudly, and Ray watched as the criminal rolled out of his broken vehicle and sprinted past the highway barricades, police pursuing closely behind with their guns already raised. He looked young. Young enough to go to juvie, even. Not too young to avoid being shot, however, and Ray winced as the boy fell to the grass, unmoving. 

"How long have you been doing this?"

Michael didn't answer immediately, didn't even look at Ray, but proceeded to drain the dregs of his first bottle and start on the second one. It gave Ray enough time to second guess himself. "Sorry, personal questions are out, right--?"

"Just for my crew," Michael interrupted, fanning down Ray's insecurity with a wave of his hand. "It's nothing like that, I was just trying to figure out how to answer."

Ray also reached for his second, suddenly more intrigued by Michael's answer than he had been when he asked the question. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Michael paused, considering. "I've always been doing this, I guess. I was stealing for my family as long as I can remember. Stupid shit. Bread from liquor stores, money from pockets, things like that. We weren't well off, and what money my dad did make, he spent on booze. I only really started doing heavy shit after he was dead, and I didn't have anyone. Local gangs helped me out, taught me to shoot. Taught myself how to fight until I won more bets than I lost."

He stopped to take a long drink, and Ray shifted in surprise, unaware of how intently he had been focusing on Michael's words. To him, Michael had always seemed like a foreign entity, this otherworldly thing, tangible, but on an entirely different plane of existence. It had never occurred to him that Michael once lived like he did. _Worse_ than he did. 

"Gavin found me, actually," Michael continued, undisturbed by Ray's silence. "I was probably around 17, and a regular at an illegal fighting ring, underground bullshit, and he came to see my fights. Finally asked me if I was interested in something better, something that would make me more money."

"And you said yes?" Ray asked, finally relaxing into his seat. 

"Fuck, no," Michael scoffed, and Ray smiled. "I told him to fuck off or I'd dislocate his jaw. I didn't trust him," Michael paused again, and allowed himself a wistful chuckle. "Might have been those fucking clothes he wears."

"So how did he finally get you?"

Michael moved to kick his feet up on the coffee table, and Ray felt unshackled enough to drink his second bottle a little quicker than he normally would have. When he looked up again, Michael was chewing at his bottom lip, eyes alight, as though he were caught in a memory. 

"The asshole brought a case of money after the fifth or six time I turned him down, almost a year later. Said that all I had to do was meet with his boss, hear him out, and I could take the ten grand and run with it for all they cared. I just had to hear the pitch. Honestly, I thought I was being played, maybe asked to take a fall for something, but I really, really needed that money. So I went."

Ray hummed pleasantly, feeling the first affects of alcohol stirring lightly in his consciousness. 

Michael raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," Ray chuckled, still hardly believing he was able to do that at _all_ , in light of everything. "I just didn't expect you to have been recruited for your fists. I thought driving was your thing; you're good at it."

Michael smirked at him, lifting his bottle to drain his second beer like it was a daily ritual. Ray was falling behind, more prone to nursing his alcohol until it grew warm and cringe-worthy in his hands. He took another drink, irritated by his own need to keep up with Michael, to impress him. 

"Yeah, well, you haven't seen me fight you?"

Michael's voice was blatantly prideful, and Ray caught a flash of an imagined scenario, perpetually bloody fists knocking out teeth, slamming bodies into tables with wild, untamed laughter, and he nearly had to physically shake his head to clear his thoughts when Michael continued. 

"Besides, Jack is our driver. He knows the streets of this city like he's fucking melded with them. More cautious and careful than me, too, which saves a lot on repairs. Plus he's the only one of us with any actual training in pilot courses, so it's kind of his go-to job, you know?"

Ray looked at him, bewildered. "Pilot courses? As in, aircrafts?"

Michael unscrewed his third beer with a noncommittal shrug. "We dabble."

" _Fuck_ ," was the only breathless answer Ray could supply, his mind going haywire with new information. What the fuck had he been pulled into? No rumors had reached him of a crew willing to hijack aircrafts, and he had always assumed that the Mayor Barnes estate had been the result of a large scale anarchist attack -- not from one man that hailed from a very unorthodox crew of criminals, and had a penchant for prideful destruction. 

A short silence followed, where Michael flipped the channels leisurely until it landed on some nameless action flick, and Ray was able to finish the rest of his beer with relative ease, thoughts still racing, but careful, calculated. He was growing aware of how attached he was becoming to the position that he was in, and as dismal as his future looked, he was uncomfortably surprised that it held more promise and potential than his life at the gas station had been. Sitting there with Michael, a man he had known for only days, held more stability than he had been able to give his previous life credit for, and something was sitting hard in the pit of his stomach with that knowledge. 

He didn't want to go with the Vagos; not because he was afraid (fuck, he was _terrified_ ), but rather because he would miss this simple harmony. He knew there were people that you met in life, handfuls of them, that would alter your course and stay wedged in your memory, conditioning you for your future and opening new ways of thinking, of living. Relationships with these people were usually short-lived, and he couldn't help counting Michael among them, even if he wasn't quite ready to let go. 

A thought occurred to him, and he cleared his throat, ready to push his luck. "Can I ask you about...Bruce?"

Michael's eyes darkened, and Ray knew he had made a mistake. He instantly realized that he should have known better; if Michael hadn't told Gavin, he sure as hell wasn't going to open up to Ray. 

"No," Michael growled out, but the ferocity wasn't really aimed at Ray, and his gaze was elsewhere. "That's a story for another day."

"Sorry, man," Ray muttered, but Michael shook off his apology, eyes suddenly back to the present and his face composed. 

"It's good. I'm happy to answer most questions, but some things are off limits. You'll know them when you ask them."

"Fair enough," Ray mumbled, reaching down to grab his third beer, and to pass Michael his fourth. He was surprised at Michael's tame answer, and his level-headed approach to avoidance. He had expected explosive anger, possibly a fist against his jaw for asking questions Ray had known were far too intrusive. Contrary to what Michael assured him, he seemed somehow...stable. The security encouraged Ray's inquisitions. "I take it I didn't make Geoff's cutting score then?"

Michael sighed, and Ray was taken aback to catch honest disappointment on his face. "I don't know, man. I don't want you to think he's some heartless sonvabitch or something. He was as impressed as I was..." Ray swallowed his heart at that, but Michael continued, unaware, "...he just hates being in debt. And six hundred grand is a _hell_ of a lot of debt, especially to the wrong people. He has to go with what the crew needs most, and right now, that's the cash we could get for you."

Ray considered, tapping his finger against his bottle gingerly. "But he was impressed, then?"

Michael scoffed, raising his beer to his lips. "He'd be stupid not to be."

Ray felt a surge of pride and tried to keep the smile from his face. He was _good_ at something. So good, in fact, that he had managed to impress people that made a _living_ out of doing that particular thing, and nothing Ray had ever done to that point gave him the same kind of satisfaction as that insight did. He knew he was slipping into a dangerous way of thinking, finding self-respect in such a line of work, imagining a future in it, but he was tumbling, unable to stop himself as the dominoes of this blissful train wreck continued to fall. 

Michael seemed to sense that Ray's egotistical bubble was rapidly filling, and tore his eyes away from the TV screen to meet Ray's. "How are you feeling about all this, anyway? Kind of a rush, right?"

And Ray, for all his fucking imagined cowardice, all of his blending, wallflower antics, and for all of his vanilla existence, grinned to his very core, and Michael smiled back, utterly satisfied with his answer. 

 

///

 

It took two hours for Ryan to show up, and by that time, Michael and Ray were both far more drunk than they ought to have been. Ray was laying haphazardly across Michael's couch, beer dangling dangerously from heavy fingertips, listening with rapt fascination as Michael recounted his last demolition, placing C4 underneath the grates so that, when it blew, guys shot into the ceiling like flipped pancakes. Michael was animated, mimicking their twitching, and Ray was laughing so hard that tears streamed from his eyes. 

And suddenly, there was Ryan, hovering above Michael like a reproachful father with a disapproving glint in his eyes that matched the scowl on his face. 

"Hey, Ry. Geoff send you?" Michael drawled, looking up to meet Ryan's gaze, but Ray's heart was stuffed in his throat, and he instantly sat up and tried to look as sober as possible. Ryan shot him an annoyed glance, and he knew that he had failed. 

"Michael, you know you can't remove company property without signing it out first."

Michael grinned, and Ray realized belatedly that it was Ryan's attempt at humor. He frantically racked his brain, trying to remember whether or not terminators had ever been programmed with an ability to make jokes. 

"I was testing him in... mild field conditions?" Michael offered, looking completely relaxed as Ryan glowered down at him in response. "You know, research."

"Fraternization," Ryan chided, crossing his arms. 

"He's not the enemy," Michael scoffed in response, but there was a flash of discomfort in his face, and Ryan snagged it up immediately. 

"Yeah, but he will be. We may partner with the Vagos if necessity calls, but we're not friends, you know that. And you spilling company secrets to their potential recruits isn't exactly the best decision you've ever made, Michael."

Michael tipped his beer towards Ryan with a wink. "But it's not the worst, right? Ryan? ...Right?"

Ryan ignored him and motioned for Ray to get up, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. Ray flinched lightly, but did as instructed, feeling slightly wobbly on his feet and cursing that seventh beer. Michael looked put out, but said nothing as Ryan moved next to Ray and jerked his arms behind his back to slip the cuffs on as tight as he could get them. 

"You couldn't have gotten the pink padded ones?" Ray mumbled, irritated as it cut into his wrists. "You don't really know how to show a guy a good time, do you?"

Ray was hardly aware of the words as they left his mouth, his nerves were shattered and he had turned his brain on autopilot, which meant his defense mechanism of sarcasm was in full force. He tried not to smile too big when Michael buckled in laughter. 

"Still got that lovely sense of humor, I see," Ryan commented, low and unamused. "I hope your frolicking in the valley was worth it, cause you're not likely to get another." He straightened up a bit, his hand gripping Ray hard just above his elbow, and addressed Michael. "He's on lockdown, Geoff's orders. And I've been reassigned as caretaker, which I'm absolutely _thrilled_ about, if you've noticed."

Michael's expression went stormy, but he didn't immediately respond, and Ray's felt a fleeting desperation course through him. He tried to meet Michael's eyes, to wordlessly beg him to say something, to stand up for him, remind Ryan that Ray was only out because Michael had literally _dragged_ him out, but Michael refused to acknowledge Ray in any form. There was a thick static in the air around them now, and Ryan seemed to sense it, his grip on Ray's arm slacking long enough for Ray to grasp that there was a power struggle happening before him. 

Michael stood, slowly, and the charge in the room amplified. Ryan, in his defense, didn't cower or sneer, but met Michael's cold stare with equally intensity, his determination for indifference matched only by Michael's blatant disrespect for subordination. There were several seconds of electrifying silence before Michael spoke, and his words hung heavy and toxic in the air. 

"I was in complete control here. I made the decisions--"

"--And look what they got you--"

" _I_ made the decisions," Michael interrupted loudly, overpowering Ryan. "And he has no fault in any of it. This isn't a game, Ryan, and he is not your plaything. Don't do anything that's going to direct my attention onto you."

The lack of anger and expletives in Michael's voice put Ray on edge, and his heart was hammering in his throat. Michael was calculating his words, choosing carefully and letting prowess speak where hierarchy could not. Ray could feel the pounding of blood through his veins where Ryan was digging his fingers into his skin, and in that brief, terrifying moment, Ray wasn't sure who he was more afraid of. 

Finally, Ryan scoffed and broke the silence, muttering, "Please. I don't like shooting fish in a barrel," as he jerked Ray towards the door as unkindly as possible. Ray chanced a glance back at Michael, but he stood frozen in the middle of the room, the fire in his eyes directed towards the windows where the sun was only a pinprick in the distance of a rapidly darkening sky. Ray opened his mouth, intent on saying some form of goodbye, maybe even a thank you, but it felt too childish, and an overwhelming sense of loss and discontent broke over him, keeping his mouth firmly shut and dropping his heart from the top of his throat to the bottom of his stomach. 

Ryan ushered him out, and he followed along dutifully, his defenses fallen and his sarcasm lost in the throes of regret, in the pang of uncertainty and apprehension. He suddenly felt as lost as he had when he first saw the crime scene of the gas station, his sneakers crunching over the glass remains of his only sustenance. His body felt heavy, and his mind was fogged, torn between the reality of his situation, and his own stupidity for imagining that anything good would have come from this. That Michael really would have been able to help him. That he would even trust and believe him to do so. 

He sat in the back of Ryan's car in silence, feeling the metal bite his skin as the luxury around him went unnoticed. It felt suffocating now, malicious and full of all the horror stories Ray would hear over the counter, hopeless and fear-mongering. He tuned out. He disconnected. The world shifted under him, and so did his budding excitement for the future. His ego deflated, and his pride was consumed under waves of shame, replaced with nothing but a hollow, sinking feeling. 

Time passed in a blur, and he found himself being roughly shoved into a new cell block, not surprised to hear the click of a lock behind him as he stared down at the flimsy blanket draped over the thick, hard material of the cot. There were no pillows, no bottles of water or boxes of food, and no way to tell the passage of time. He collapsed onto his bed, shoved his fears and worries aside, and waited.

 

///

 

The evening and night had passed before Ryan came to fetch him. The sunlight was already streaming through the windows as he was tugged through the make-shift infirmary and gifted a cold shower that lacked both privacy and decency. A small curtain was the only thing that separated what was essentially a shower head jutting from the wall and Ryan's biting glare, and Ray finished as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the heat of embarrassment as he waited for Ryan to toss him fresh clothes. 

"Where did you get these?"

Ryan was turned away from him, just slightly, but Ray could still see him chewing the inside of his cheek, working through whether or not he wanted to answer. "Michael brought them for you, in a backpack. There's a toothbrush and other shit in there too. I'll drop it off later, once I look through it more thoroughly."

Ray buttoned the borrowed pants up hastily, allowing himself a small smile as he pulled a Triforce shirt on over his head. Happiness blossomed inside of him, and he tried to quell it. "Can I see him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Ryan sighed, irritated, and Ray knew he was pushing his luck, but a shitty night on a shitty cot had him feeling rebellious. Not to mention the fact that he hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and hunger always made him cranky and sassy. 

"Michael isn't conductive to your training. I doubt you'll see him again."

Ray scoffed in disbelief, and Ryan made a knee jerk-reaction with his fist that had Ray wondering just how Geoff had managed to get him tamed, before Ryan was up and leading Ray back to his cell. He was alone for a moment before Ryan returned, throwing a Subway bag across the floor and looking entirely too pleased with himself as it slid to a stop up against the toilet. 

"Really dude? Thirteenth commandment: Thou shalt not fuck with another man's sandwich."

Ryan flipped him off and slammed the door, shouting for Geoff to ask whether or not Ray _really_  needed his legs to practice shooting. Ray sighed, fetching his food from the floor and unwrapping it carefully, as if to apologize for Ryan's maltreatment. He tried to ignore his overwhelming sense of boredom and twitching need to _do_ something, and instead focused on figuring out a way to smooth-talk his way out of this situation. 

Michael had sent clothes for him, which could mean he was still invested in Ray's outcome, but Ray couldn't imagine much more he'd be able to do without going in direct violation of Geoff's orders. Ray chewed, wishing bitterly that Michael had listened to Geoff the first time around and not taken him out of the building. He'd still be in the vastly more comfortable cell, with it's pillows and blankets, and Michael would likely still be his charge. 

He shook his head and tried to empty his mind of decisions that couldn't be unmade, and wondering blearily when he'd be able to go outside again. Michael's clothes smelled faintly of smoke and static, like the thunder before a storm, and despite Ray's attempts to clear his head, his thoughts drifted to underground fighting rings and triggered C4.

 

///

 

Other than a daily shower, food deliveries, and a few hours on the indoor range, Ray stayed contained in his 'room' for days, never seeing Michael once. He would catch glimpses of Gavin now and then, but other than an infuriating smirk that made Ray's blood boil, Gavin made no motion to speak to him, and disappeared as quickly as he came. 

The only other person he saw was Jack, who brought him dinner one night. He stated that Ryan was out for a supply run, and Ray found him to be rather empathetic, asking if Ray needed anything else and glancing around the cell with a disapproving frown. Ray declined, and said nothing more until Jack took his leave. He'd made enough attachments already.

 

///

 

Ray managed to get a few words from Ryan on some days, and the tension in the air between them seemed to have melted a bit. Ryan knew he wouldn't be allowed to damage Ray in any way, and that new-found disappointment seemed to have turned the murder junkie into a bored housewife. They had been on the range for an hour, and Ray was almost catatonic with boredom. Shooting with Ryan in the room was nothing like having Michael there, and the monotony of their daily schedule was turning Ray into a sluggish wreck. 

He pulled off his earmuffs and placed the pistol in Ryan's waiting hand, magazine spent. "How many people have you killed?"

It was poking a tiger in a cage, and Ray knew that, but he needed a rise from Ryan. Needed _something_ to make this day different than the others before he lost his mind. He was so weary of two word responses and noncommittal shrugs. 

The corners of Ryan's mouth twitched, as though he might smile, before he ejected the magazine. "That's like asking a lady her weight. You just don't do it."

"You don't strike me as modest," Ray paused, considering. "Or, you know, being swarmed with guilt."

Ryan slid a new magazine in before even bothering to look at Ray, who was shifting his weight, torn between amusement and trepidation. "You're right, I don't feel guilty. So just imagine how little I'd care about gutting you right now."

"You wouldn't," Ray popped off quickly, very nearly alarmed as he tried to calculate what percentage of Ryan's argument was only empty threats. "You guys need me. Right?" He added cautiously. 

Ryan grinned at him before holding out the pistol for Ray to take, keeping his other hand lingering near his own, in case Ray tried to get smart. "Well, thank God for small miracles, Narvaez."

Ray didn't initiate conversation for the remainder of the day.

 

///

 

It was twelve days before a representative from the Vagos came, and he looked exactly as Ray had imagined: He wore a large, yellow jersey from the Pounders, and carried himself with a heightened sense of superiority. His brown eyes were sharp, though lacking intuition, and the glock at his side was gleaming and well-kept. Ryan led Ray out by the elbow and up towards the range, their feet following a path that a daily habit had worn deep into their memory.  The guy followed behind at a distance, eyes raking up and down the rooms and halls. 

Ray tried to study him, tried to get a grip on what plan of action he needed to take, but Ryan held him forward, digging fresh bruises into him and keeping Ray's eyes focused ahead. His footsteps were light on the stairs, and he shifted himself into autopilot as he mulled over his options. He could intentionally shoot horribly, and prevent himself from being traded, but the consequences of that were too heavy to give the option any real buoyancy. For one, Geoff would likely be so pissed at Ray that he'd kill him on sight, and staying alive generally seemed like a preferable option. Plus, Michael had vouched for his ability, and downplaying his skills would be a slap to Michael's reputation, as well as his own pride. 

His other option, of course, would be to shoot as best as he could, and allow the trade to go through. He might get a chance to slip away, if the Vagos were less organized than Michael's crew, less responsible. It would rely on a lot of luck, but Michael himself had encouraged Ray to bide his time until he could betray the Vagos and make a run for it. But that notion kept leading him back to the question of where he would go. He had no car, he hadn't the slightest idea of how to hot-wire one, he had no money, and he'd be lucky if he could nab a gun from someone before he booked it. 

None of his options were appealing, and by the time Ryan had shoved him into the range, he was no closer to making a decision than he had been two weeks ago. Nothing felt right, and the best he could do was a have Hail Mary's hope that something, _somehow_ , would intervene. 

Ray felt distant and detached as Ryan set up his pistol for him, clamping ear muffs over his head and shoving the barrel of his own gun into the small of Ray's back, a distinct warning not to try shooting anything that wasn't the target at the end of the range. Ray breathed deep, trying to remember how easy it had been to handle the weight of a weapon before his fruitless sessions with Ryan, to sink into this ability. But his world was tilted, askew, and he couldn't help himself as he looked around the room for guidance, trying to get his mind straight. 

Ryan was scowling at him, and the Vago was standing several feet behind, a knowing smirk on his face as though he sensed Ray's discomfort. But before Ray could feel the flush of embarrassment, the door opened, completely unheard thanks to the muffs over his ears, and he felt his heart rate double as Geoff walked in, bowtie slightly unhinged, with Michael at his side. 

Ray let his gaze hover over Geoff only momentarily, but when he was given no returning attention, he shifted his eyes to Michael, who appeared stoic, if not displeased. His brown leather jacket and denim jeans made him a stark comparison to Geoff in his tailored suit, but he still radiated that unchecked danger Ray had grown alarmingly accustomed to. Going so many days without seeing Michael put him in a fresh light, and Ray was again reminded of who this man truly was. There was a quick flashback of Michael slamming the butt of his pistol into Bruce's face, cracking his jaw, and Ray felt an unavoidable shiver crawl up his spine. 

As if sensing his desperation for stability, for guidance, Michael met his eyes and gave the tiniest nod. It was all Ray needed. 

The pistol in his hand became light, his fingers curling in it as though he had held it a thousand times over, and the sleek finish became one with his nerves and skin. The world around him was overtaken by shadows, and the only way he could see was in a measurable distance. The distance from his barrel to the target, from Michael to his own body, and, as he tore his ears away from Michael's gaze, he knew exactly how far everyone in the room was in relation to Michael himself. Threats. He could calculate who to take out first, who would reach Michael quicker in the event of a fight, and that knowledge, the selfish desire to _protect_ , drew an instinct from him that he'd never had before. He latched onto it, molded and shaped it in his mind until his fingers pressed against the trigger with intent and purpose. 

He emptied his magazine, and the paper target at the receiving end of his barrel bore wide holes in both the chest and head. No one needed to go collect the paper to confirm how accurate Ray had been. He chanced a look back at Michael as Ryan dug his gun into his back and removed his earmuffs and found the redhead hiding a smirk behind his hand, arms crossed as he leaned back against the wall. There was a spark in his eyes, darkness, and something Ray couldn't quite name, and his heart bottomed out in his stomach. He turned away quickly, very aware of the goosebumps he was sporting. 

Ryan put him through two more tests, an MP5, which was new, but Ray handled it well despite an initial mishap, and a standard issue M16 that had him feeling right at home. The Vago said nothing while Ray was put through his demonstrations, but there was a small smile on his face and his eyes sparkled with intent. By the time Ray had emptied the M16 for the second time, he turned to find the Vago already shaking hands with Geoff, pulling paperwork from his back pocket that Geoff accepted graciously, though his face wrinkled with agitation as he tried to smooth the creases on the sheets to read it over. 

Ryan took the rifle from Ray, who's heart rate was rapidly rising as the Vago approached him. He felt a hand on his chin, lifting his head up so he could stare at the leering face of what was, essentially, his new handler. 

"Guess you're my little bitch now, hey? Don't look so scared, we can have some fun before I have to turn you over to Carlos, right?"

There was a swift movement in his peripherals, and Ray turned in enough time to see Geoff shooting a warning glare at Michael, who had pushed off the wall and was staring the Vago down with a look that bore nothing but carnal rage. Geoff shot Ray an apologetic frown, and released his hand from Michael's chest cautiously. 

"Piece of shit," Michael spat, his fists clenched. "He gets handed over _exactly_ the same, or I swear, I will rip your goddamn throat out!"

The Vago chuckled, unperturbed. "You might want to tie up your dog, Ramsey. I think it's rabid."

There was a flash of movement and the crack of bone against bone before the Vago was stumbling back, his hand flying to cradle his jaw where Michael had struck him. Geoff jumped forward and pulled Michael back, but the damage had already been done, and the Vago spit out a mouthful of blood onto the floor, eyes flashing in anger. He jerked forward, as if he intended to escalate the fight, but faltered at the territorial gleam of madness in Michael's eyes, the challenge blatantly written across his features, the warning in his clenched fists. Instead, he shot Ray a glowering look before settling his gaze on Geoff, who was looking grumpy. 

"Sign the paper, Ramsey. The deal goes through. I'll be back next week to pick him up."

Ray was barely able to register what happened before the door was slamming shut behind the Vago. Ryan relaxed his grip on his pistol, and the atmosphere in the room switched from tense to apprehensive faster than Ray could access the damage that Michael had done. 

"You fucking idiot," Geoff sighed, running a hand over his face and causing his eyes to amplify their weariness. "If your goal was to make sure Narvaez will be treated like a pile of dog shit, then job well done. Fucking idiot," he repeated, but Michael didn't even flinch, flexing his fingers gingerly and wincing when he curled them back into a fist. 

"Fuck him. He'd be too scared to try; wouldn't even hit me back."

"Which makes him a hell of a lot smarter than you!" Geoff cried, his voice cracking. "The fuck were you thinking, Michael?!"

Michael mumbled a reply, but Ray didn't get to hear it as Ryan was already pushing him towards the door, hands rough against his shoulder. He tried to catch any fragments he could of Michael and Geoff's lowered volumes before he was shoved out of the room, but Michael was facing away from him, and the only clue he had to the workings of their conversation was the softened frown lines that graced Geoff's usually stoic persona. 

All to quickly he was returned to his cell, where stone cold walls and unanswered questions awaited him. Pensive and frustrated, he turned towards Ryan before he was locked in. "What just happened?" he asked, and was startled by how meek his voice sounded. 

Ryan shrugged, but there was a strange sort of empathy that was trying to break the cold indifference that Ryan carried with him, and that scared Ray worst of all. 

"I know you'd like to think that Michael wants to help you..." he paused, shaking his head. "But he's been consistently screwing you over since you got here. Honestly, you might have been better off if we just killed you."

And with that, he slammed the cell door shut, leaving Ray to wallow in the dichotomy that surrounded his feelings towards Michael, and what had just happened. In one reality, the time they had spent together was what Ray had longed for the moment he left home: friendship, promise, freedom. In the other, however, it was impossible to ignore that the end of his life was quickly approaching, and he could blame it entirely on Michael's interference. Sure, he could say he brought it upon himself by choosing to live here, but he had been well on his way out. To real freedom. 

And as much as he reveled in his hidden abilities, coupled with the fact that he was suddenly worth way, _way_ more than the bullet it would take to end him, the high from that was sunk by his inevitably short, miserable future. He knew what the Vago had implied, and he knew that, once his final week here was over, his life would either be chalked up to sexual servitude followed quickly by untimely death from a botched fire team, or straight refusal, in which case the Vagos would likely dump his body in the bay. Either way, his future looked neither bright, nor long. 

He slumped back onto the cot and wondered bitterly why he couldn't just hate Michael, and all the shit that had come with him. Maybe, just maybe, Michael would still feel guilty enough to put a bullet into Ray's brain for him. 

Now there was a thought. 

 

///

 

Five days passed, and no one came to see him except Ryan. His meals had gotten larger, he noticed, and Ryan seemed less imposing than usual, as though it was the crew's pathetic apology to the outcome of his situation. He tried to ignore it. The parallels with death row were enough to send the bile rising to his throat. 

He didn't try and coax Ryan into conversation, and though the wall between them had crumbled slightly, the larger man seemed even less inclined to speak with Ray than he had three weeks ago, when their resentment of one another was almost tangible. Ryan spent his time whittling patterns into a large spike of wood when he was forced to take Ray to the showers, and Ray couldn't even find the energy or emotion to label it strange. He supposed it wasn't. 

Nothing really was, anymore. It was steady, dismal. Predictable. 

So when Ryan hastily unlocked his door an hour after delivering dinner, grabbed him by the collar of another one of Michael's shirts, and forced him into the foyer, Ray was terrified at the change of attitude. He wasn't even able to get a word in edgewise as he tried to collect his bearings over Ryan's rough manhandling, and suddenly he was shoved forward to face a panic-stricken and angry Geoff. 

"Narvaez," he started calmly, but his fingers were flexing unconsciously at his sides, and his body seemed to tremble. "Where are Michael and Gavin?"

Ray swallowed and looked around. Only Jack and Ryan were in the room with them, and his apprehension grew. Michael was his anchor here, and without him, he felt foreign and displaced. "Well, he's not hiding under my bed, I can tell you that much."

Geoff growled and turned away, running his hands through his hair. "In 34 hours, we're due to nab four brand new Italian sportscars. We've spent the greater part of six weeks planning this, and they've been here through every step. And now, no one has seen them for two days. Can you explain that?"

There was a undeveloped sense of panic in the room, and everyone seemed clued in on the situation except for Ray. Certainly they knew he had been locked up for the past three weeks without any knowledge of Michael and Gavin's activities, so how were they implying that anything could have correlated back to him? He let the small twinge of fear at Michael's expense pass unnoticed and voiced his uncertainty at what information he could offer.

"How would I know where they're at? You've kept me locked up like a fucking animal."

Geoff's reaction was instantaneous, and Ray was slammed against the wall before he had bothered to put his arms up in a weak defense. "Listen to me," Geoff growled, inches from Ray's face. "Ever since Victor showed up and gave me that trade paperwork, Michael has been nuts about getting you off the hook. I'll put up with your sass, but you will not stand there, in Michael's goddamn _clothes_ , while him and Gavin are missing, and fucking LIE to me!"

"Geoff, I swear, I don't--"

Geoff tightened his grip and slammed him against the wall again, and Ray's vision teetered on black. "I swear to God, Narvaez, if you don't tell me what you convinced him to do, I will cut you open until I can carve out an answer."

Ray's heart hammered wildly, but he was saved from the threat of Geoff's knife when a loud crash echoed through the hallway. There were muffled shouts, another crash, and suddenly Geoff's hands had left him and he was flying through the door towards the noise, Jack quickly on his heels. Ray put a hand to his chest and tried to control his erratic breathing and clear the stars from his eyes, but Ryan was dragging him forward by a vice grip around his arm, and together they followed the pounding of Geoff and Jack's footsteps. 

The hallway was dark, and the concrete distorted the voices that reverberated around the walls. Ray was terrified, but his heart flipped in his chest when he recognized Michael's chaotic laughter through the pounding of shoes. They caught up with Geoff and Jack towards the back entrance, the same one Michael and Gavin had slipped Ray through during their outing, and Ray nearly grinned in relief when he saw Michael lying spread eagle on the floor. He was covered in sweat, dirt, and a large gash on his arm was oozing blood at a slow but steady rate. Ray could see the glint of steel and copper embedded into his bulletproof vest. Gavin was propped up against the wall not far from him, looking relatively unscathed, but he was breathing heavy from adrenaline, and his eyes shone bright with delightful mischief. 

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Geoff muttered in stark relief, sinking down to rest his head against his knees as he caught his breath, arms shaking. 

"What the hell were you doing?" Jack breathed heavily, his eyes scanning over the two winded men that graced the floor. "Were you running from the cops?"

"And a SWAT team," Michael sat up and grinned devilishly. Ray couldn't help if his eyes lingered a little too long on the curve of Michael's back, or the blood across his fingers. He swallowed as heat bottomed out in his belly, and turned his gaze away to wait for Geoff's reaction. 

But Geoff wasn't staring at Michael. His gaze focused on the two duffel bags that were thrown unceremoniously on the floor at Michael's feet. "Gavin, Michael... what's in the bags?"

Gavin giggled, and Geoff's eyes widened as he glanced between the two of them, a flash of understanding across his face. "Michael... you didn't."

In response, Michael grabbed the bag closest to him and zipped it open enough so that the contents could catch the minimal light that shone from the windows. They glittered, and the room collectively held it's breath as they scanned over the diamonds, gems, and thin chains that had tangled around themselves from being viciously manhandled and thrown about. The contents and their previous location were blindingly obvious, even to Ray, and he swallowed, unbelieving. Michael and Gavin had effectively cleaned out a high-end jewelry store. 

"Oh, come on, Geoff," Michael groaned, wincing slightly as he used his injured arm to pull out a long necklace that was littered with diamonds and ended with a beautiful gemstone embedded feather. "For Griffon, yeah? Can't be too mad."

"Michael, was this..." his words faltered as he held out his hand for the offered necklace, looking nothing less than incredulous. "Did you rob _Vangelico's_?"

Michael only grinned, and Gavin giggled again, looking exhausted but completely sated. Geoff shook his head but didn't spare them another glance as he zipped open the second duffel to reveal another dazzling collection of jewelry. "Fuck, guys, there must be millions here."

"Inventory said 4.2 million," Gavin corrected lightly. 

"More than enough to pay off a debt."

Michael's voice was light, carefree, but Geoff narrowed his eyes, and Ray's world went still. His blood turned to ice as he felt his heart skip a beat, but he didn't dare himself to hope. Not yet. He couldn't bare the disappointment again. Jack and Ryan stiffened, and he felt Ryan's fingers dig into his arms out of shock and disbelief.

"Michael," Geoff started slowly, refusing to meet Michael's eyes. "What are you thinking." 

It wasn't a question, but no one needed an answer. Everyone in the room knew why Michael had done what he did, and they all waited with baited breath for the ball to be dropped. Ray turned to watch Michael answer, and was startled to find himself being watched in return. Two small rivets of blood streamed from the gash in Michael's arm and dropped to the concrete as they held their connection, and Ray could feel the heat from Michael's gaze stirring up the embers of the fire he had been trying to put on backburner for three weeks. Suddenly it was aflame, licking at his nerves and pleading with him to act, to lay claim. Michael smirked, and Ray knew it wasn't entirely unrelated. 

"I want him on the crew, Geoff."


	10. 10

Ray had never seen a man down whiskey like Geoff could.

Everyone had made their way up to the second floor, where the room was in considerable more disarray than when Ray had seen it last. Papers littered Geoff's desk, tunnel schematics and budget reports piled high, with a clipboard containing weapon inventory that Geoff seemed to have given up compiling onto his computer if the abandoned office program was anything to go by. The whiteboards were covered with scribbled markings, and the large city map had four differently colored routes highlighted, with a crew member's name pin-pricked next to each one.

Geoff immediately made for the table, ignoring the stacked pizza boxes in favor of an opened bottle, and proceeded to chug a good quarter of it in one fluid movement. He grimaced and shook his head wildly, as if he could fling the aftertaste away. The remainder of the crew filed in awkwardly, awaiting a more verbal reaction.

Ray watched as Michael leaned heavy against the wall beside Jack, letting a brief huff of pain escape him when he brushed his arm. Jack quietly leaned over to examine the nick, looking concerned. He whispered something, peeling back the torn layers of fabric to get a closer look, but Michael just shook his head, giving Jack an appreciative smile as he muttered something in reply.

Gavin, seemingly unaffected by the thick tension in the air, followed Geoff's lead and strode towards the table, throwing himself casually into a chair and pulling a piece of pizza from the box, glancing around at them all in turn, as if his life were a particularly amusing sitcom, and he was eager for the next episode.

Ray said nothing, completely convinced that his future was on the tip of a pin, and anything he did could undoubtedly cast him over and undo Michael's work, the shock of which was still rattling around in his system like an upended bag of marbles. Ryan remained behind him, but his grip on Ray's arm had disappeared, and he was watching Geoff with rapt attention, awaiting the conversation with a keen, unveiled interest.

"So," Geoff swallowed, slightly recovering his dignity and choosing to pour himself a glass instead of shooting it straight from the bottle. "Should I even bother with the lecture?"

He didn't even glance at Michael when the redhead gave an immediate, almost predictable, "Please, skip it," and Gavin hummed in agreement.

"Too bad," Geoff scoffed. "Because I am so utterly and irrevocably _pissed_ at the both of you, that the only thing keeping me from locking you stupid cocksuckers in a cell of your own is by yelling as much as possible. So brace yourselves."

Gavin flinched a bit, but Michael remained unfazed. "Geoff, we were totally safe. We planned out every detail, every outcome, and we had solutions ready for all of it."

"You were shot--," Geoff started, but Michael interrupted him with a scoff.

"Please. I'm always getting shot."

"Exactly!"

The room was silent for a moment, and Ray suddenly realized where Geoff's anger was coming from. It wasn't insubordination, or secrets, or anything that Ray initially assumed Geoff be furious over. Michael had put himself, and Gavin, into harm's way, and Geoff had been afraid. He had been _terrified_. And now that he knew for certain that Michael and Gavin were alive and relatively unscathed, that fear had morphed into fury.

"Geoff," Gavin tried cautiously, "I hammered out all the details. I talked Michael through it every step of the way, and I had eyes on everything."

"You hacked their security system?" Geoff questioned, shooting his biting glare towards Gavin.

"'Course I did."

Geoff's eyes narrowed, and he threw himself into the nearest chair. He ran a hand across his face, and Ray was struck with an unexpected sympathy for him. He couldn't imagine how well he'd be holding up if he was supposed to keep track of the entire crew's hysterics and penchant for free will; Gavin alone had to be a handful. Geoff took a ginger sip from his glass, as though trying to restore some of his graceful composure, and waved his hand at Gavin. "Explain. All of it, now."

Gavin glanced at Michael, who gave the slightest of shrugs, and Gavin sighed. "Geoff, do we really--?"

"You two robbed the most expensive jewelry store in the county. I know for a fact that it's swarmed with customers on a daily basis, and even when it's closed, there are four guards posted there. The security is wired to the police station, and they watch that feed 24/7. So excuse the _fuck_ out of me if I want to know how you two stupid, god-forsaken idiots managed to pull this off!"

"And why _we_ weren't invited," Ryan's low voice boomed behind Ray, making him jump, but Geoff ignored them both and stared steadily at Gavin.

"Alright, fine," Gavin held up his hands in mock defeat, half a slice of pizza still clutched in his fingers. He shifted his eyes towards Michael one last time, but Michael seemed intent on remaining silent. Gavin reached into the cooler on top of the table and grabbed a Red Bull, popping the top as he began to explain.

"We started planning about two weeks ago. Tentative, no real pull behind it. But after the Victor incident, Michael became adamant."

Michael shifted uncomfortably, and Ray felt the same embarrassment clutch deep in his stomach. It felt a bit like being outed, but he shoved it down as Gavin continued.

"Took some time to figure out the finer aspects, but once we tackled the smaller issues, everything started falling together. The security feed was easy. Just switched the live footage to a recorded bit and let it loop around for a couple of minutes. That was all the time Michael needed."

"That wouldn't have worked," Geoff interjected. "Even the idiots that run the station would have noticed when they kept seeing the same customers walk around, not to mention the inconsistency of the loop restarting."

"True," Gavin commented, but a grin slid onto his face. "That's why we cleared the customers out beforehand. Carbon monoxide."

Geoff's face was blank. "Are you serious?"

"Oh yeah, real easy. Sounds stupid, I know, but it worked. Nearly every building in the city has a detector, and it doesn't take much to set it off. Cleared the place right out, and they shut the store down, safety reasons, blah blah. We only had a short amount of time before the owner called the inspectors though, so we had to work fast."

"And the guards?"

"Well, they were the ones that shooed everyone out, of course. Sent the employees home. Two stayed out front with the manager, and two stationed themselves around the back entrance, where they do delivery drop offs. Those are the only those two entrances, as you know. I recorded the empty room for a bit, then set the loop.

"One of the back door guards has a wife-- very, very pregnant. I called his cell phone and told him I was a nurse at the hospital, and his wife had just come in, ready to pop the damn thing out. His buddy out back urged him to leave, told him that he had it covered."

He stopped to take a drink, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"The two up front were a little trickier. I had logged into the owners cell account and shut down his service while I was still in the car parked out front, as he wouldn't be able to make the call from his office phone. Left him no choice but to seek out help from the incredibly convenient passerby on the sidewalk."

"Oh, Christ," Geoff mumbled, downing the rest of his drink, pretense forgotten.

"Yup. He asked to borrow my phone and I obliged, but told him the signal was shit, and he'd have to walk down to the end of the block and get some clear sky. One guard went with him, per owners request, and the other remained in front of the store."

"Why would he take one of the guards with him?" Jack asked, unconvinced.

"Do you know how many people have tried to rob Vangelico's?" Gavin laughed. "The poor guy has had more guns in his face than Baljin down at the 69 cent store. He takes a guard with him everywhere. He's spooked for life.

"Anyway. I started chatting up the remaining guard, keeping his attention focused on me so he wouldn't be able to see Michael smashing the glass cabinets behind him."

"The fuck? How'd you get in, Michael?"

Michael shrugged at Geoff. "What's the most cliche thing you can think of? Twenty bucks you know exactly what I did."

Geoff clonked his head onto the table, groaning through the words, "Delivery boy."

"Twenty bucks to me then!" Michael chimed happily, looking just as pleased as Gavin was. "Believe me, I thought it was the dumbest thing Gavin ever suggested, which is saying a lot, but he assured me it would work."

Geoff turned his head against the wood just enough to shoot Michael a skeptical look, but allowed him to continue without interruption.

"The store receives deliveries every Tuesday of the week, and they're usually dropped off in a plain, white trailer truck to avoid attention. It was easy enough to find a replica, and we just made sure to plan everything about an hour earlier than the scheduled delivery. The guard wasn't suspicious of me in the slightest, which made disarming him and knocking him out that much easier." Michael scowled suddenly, looking at the cut on his arm. "He managed to get a slice on me from a stupid pocket knife I didn't expect him to have, but he was too shocked to really fight back. So, lights out. From that point on, it was easy-peasy. Gas mask on, enter the code for the back door that Gavin had given me earlier, break the glass, and steal the jewels. Ran into some trouble with the cops when we peeled out harder than we should have and they finally caught on, but nothing the vest couldn't handle."

Geoff's head was still resolutely smashed into the table, and his voice was muffled by the wood. "You idiots. You fucking idiots. Do you realize how many things could have gone wrong? You got so fucking lucky, I can't even properly convey it to you."

Gavin, completely unconcerned with the repercussions of his actions, put his feet up on the table and continued with his pizza.

Michael rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "Goeff, I know we should have told you--"

"Yes, you should have."

"--But you would have just prevented us from doing it--"

"Yes, I would have!"

"--And frankly, Geoff, I'm sick of you underestimating what I can do. What Gavin can do."

Michael had touched upon the wrong subject, and when Geoff looked up at him, his anger was back in its entirety, and he was zeroed in on Michael. When he stood, no one else moved, but the room shrank upon them, boxing everyone in until they all breathed the same, uncomfortably stiff air, broken only by Geoff's penetrating gaze.

"You think that's what this is about?" Geoff asked, and the coolness of his tone, the whispered edges to his words, set off warning bells in Ray's head. "You think that I'm upset because I didn't think you could pull it off?"

Michael didn't answer, and kept his eyes glued to the floor.

"I'm pissed, Michael, because we're a fucking team. We're a crew. And if we don't stick together, we're going to fall apart faster than you could ever prepare for. You should have told us about this heist, and fuck, we could have _helped_ you. I would never, _ever_ , have let you do it alone. We're supposed to be here to back each other up, and you abandoned us to worry while you put yourself and Gavin out on a firing line!"

"Don't be a fucking hypocrite, Geoff," Michael snapped, finally flicking his eyes up to meet him. "You haven't given a damn about backing me up for almost a month."

Geoff's gaze went to linger momentarily on Ray, who felt his stomach jolt at the thought of being drug into the conversation. But Geoff shifted, and returned his attention to Michael.

"If this is about the trade--"

"You _know_ it is!" Michael pushed himself away from the wall, moving towards Geoff with intent, but there was no real malicious fight in his stature. He was angry, but it was easy to read in his body language that he harbored no ill will towards Geoff. Michael had challenged Ryan, but Geoff, it seemed, would always be held with a sort of reverence.

Michael stopped just short of being threatening. "I've asked you for weeks, _weeks_ , to reconsider. To find an alternative. I've asked all of you," he added, shooting a dirty look around the room, "And I got fuck all back. You say we're supposed to be a team, but not a single one of you even tried to work with me and find Ray a way out, except for Gavin."

Ray steeled himself enough to look over at Gavin, but the man was still entirely unperturbed, chewing idly on the ends of his crust and looking generally entertained. He felt an odd lurch of appreciation in his heart for Gavin, a feeling that momentarily drowned out his irritation towards Gavin's tactless inquisitions.

"There wasn't an alternative--" Geoff started, but it was weak, and Michael's face contorted in rage and frank disbelief at Geoff's reasoning.

"There wasn't an alternative?" He asked incredulously, picking up one of the duffel bags that had been brought up and upending it across the floor, letting the diamonds form a tumbling, glittering mound at their feet. The sight of Geoff's lost, faraway expression only seemed to further enrage Michael, and he chucked the bag against the nearest wall, shouting, "What the _fuck_ does that look like to you, Geoff?! Because to me, it looks like a _great_ fucking alternative to sending someone off to be raped and killed in an uncoordinated fire team!"

A breath of silence passed, and Michael clasped his shaking hands behind his head, as though to stave off his urge to hit something. He turned to glare at Geoff, his words cold and accusatory.

"And for what? Because he saved me-- ME, the asshole that robbed him? Because he brought me, unconscious and bleeding, back here, when he could have just left me for dead?" Michael's words were piercing, but he didn't stop, turning to meet both Geoff and Ryan's eyes as his voice dropped an octave, danger radiating within him."He did all of that, for _me_. And as thanks, he was choked, tied up, shoved around, and sold off like a fucking animal. Just for being a decent fucking human being! Is that something we should be proud of? Because I'm sure as fuck not. But hey, at least I made a fucking goddamn _effort_ to fix my mistakes."

He stopped, and the air hung deadly and silent around them. Even Gavin remained still, his cheek puffed out from the food he had ceased to keep chewing. Michael turned, to avoid looking at any of them, and ran a hand through his hair, limbs shaking.

Ray's body felt heady, like he was floating forward, and he shook himself before he could do something embarrassing like pass out on the floor like a shell-shocked woman. His wholehearted belief that Michael cared, that he was burdened with guilt, was now very realized, and Ray found that he wasn't entirely surprised. But he hadn't known that Michael had actively asked for help, had _looked_ for a way to get him unshackled. His stomach knotted.

Jack moved first, looking hesitant. "I'm sorry, Michael. I blew you off when you came to me, and I never really thought much about it. I kind of thought you were joking, I didn't realize..." He paused, and Michael looked up to meet him. A moment of understanding passed between them, and Michael tilted his head in a stiff thanks, and Jack retreated back into silence.

Geoff rubbed his eyes uncomfortably. "Michael, I know how you feel about all of this, and everything is so easy and simple from your standpoint, but you have to understand that there was a lot more riding on this than you give me credit for." He went to take another drink, reconsidered, and put the bottle back down. "Guilt is powerful, and it's been used against you before, and I just... I didn't want to see the same thing play out, man."

Michael narrowed his eyes, but stayed silent. Ray's heart was racing again at Geoff's insinuation.

_What other guilt did Michael have?_

"Look at it from my perspective. This... _nobody_ ," he gestured pointedly to Ray, "Shows up, having heroically saved you from being killed by _Bruce_ , of all people, and doesn't run. He dutifully returns you, for what? Out of the goodness of his heart? Not to mention that he just happens to have your sense of humor, just _happens_ to be inexplicably talented on the range despite having no formal training, and doesn't seem to have enough common sense to be afraid of you for a single fucking moment that he's been here? What part of that doesn't sound like infiltration to you?"

"You know he's clean," Michael growled back, and Ray could sense that Geoff was pushing his luck. The curtains on Michael's past were being steadily jerked back, and if Michael hadn't wanted Ray to hear about it private, he certainly wasn't going to be okay with it happening in front of his crew.

"True that," Gavin supplied happily. "He's picket-fence clean, if you don't include that one charge in Kansas."

Ray blushed a deep red, but refused to speak and have himself be acknowledged. As mortified as he was of knowing that Gavin had dug through his records, the argument that was happening before him was too important to push aside in a clumsy effort to momentarily defend his dignity.

"Sure, because records can't be altered," Geoff chastised, and Gavin had the decency to squawk at the indignant blow to his skills. "And besides Michael, you don't have the best track record of trusting the right people."

Michael opened his mouth to retort, but closed it, locking Geoff with a fiery gaze that even Ray had to turn away from. When Michael finally spoke, it was dark, curling around his lips with all the betrayal and hurt he could fathom. "I trusted in this crew to help me, like I've helped you. So I guess you're right."

Ray winced at the malice in the words, but the waves of anger seemed to wash right past Geoff, who merely sighed, sinking further into his chair. "Don't be so dramatic, Michael. This isn't a confessional."

Somehow, the tension was lifted slightly, and Ray looked around at them all, utterly bewildered. The entire crew was an epitome of a married couple, 20 years in and bickering like it was a pastime. No matter how much hurt they seemed to layer on, none of them would let it sink in. He knew, from his multiple siblings, that it took years of trust, love, and loyalty to build up that kind of barrier, and Ray was suddenly felt like retreating in on himself for having intruded on what was, essentially, a family.

Ryan cleared his throat. "Not to interrupt this whole 'verbal knife-toss' thing going on, but what are we going to do with him?" Ryan tapped the barrel of his gun against Ray's skull, and Ray shot him a dirty look, wincing as a headache sprung to life.

"I said I want him on the crew," Michael piqued up immediately, and Ray could see Gavin rolling his eyes in the background.

"No," Geoff shook his head, and Ray felt the balloon of happiness in him immediately deflate. "I don't trust him. I don't know anything about him."

"You didn't know anything about me, either," Michael argued, "And you _paid_ me to join up. Not to mention Ryan's record, and you signed him on as soon as you were able--"

"Hey," Ryan interjected, sounding a little miffed. "I proved my loyalty. I've got "dead or alive" posters in over six states for cleaning up your mess--"

"Ryan, don't start," Geoff muttered wearily, and Ray, slightly panicked that he was going to end up as worm food after all, latched onto the general lull of the room and spoke up.

"What do I have to do?"

He could feel everyone's gaze shift towards him, and he resolutely looked towards the ground, trying to count the threads in the carpet as he racked his mind for the right words. "To earn your trust. To prove loyalty, I mean. What would I have to do?"

Geoff was watching him carefully, calculating. "You don't mean... are you saying you'd _want_ to be a part of this shitfest?"

Ray nodded, forcing his nerves into remission and ignoring Ryan's displeased huff behind him. "I want the chance to earn consideration, at least." When no one replied, he cleared his throat and kept going. "I understand your skepticism, really. And if we're being honest, I'm not exactly thrilled at the idea of hanging around here if you guys don't trust me, considering all the of the ill treatment. And Ryan. Mostly Ryan."

Ryan kicked him in the shin.

"Fuck! Ow..." He crooked his leg cautiously, trying to flex out some of pain, and steeled himself to meet Geoff's eyes as he continued. "Look. For once in my fucking life, I'm good at something. At you guys, you're _great_ at this, and I can't think of anywhere that would make more sense for me to be. I don't have a home, a car, or a single cent to my name. You took all of that from me, and so far every single part of this has turned out worse for everyone involved. Just... give me a chance to make this into a good thing. I've got nothing else out there for me, and if you give me a chance, I swear, I will throw myself into it with every ounce of drive I have."

Geoff was watching him, studying him, and Ray let his eyes flicker over to where Michael stood, feeling embarrassment flush up his neck. He had just delivered the corniest speech he was able to cook up, and he wanted to visibly cringe at the thought of everyone surely mocking him inside their own heads.

Michael, fortunately, wasn't laughing, though his mouth was split wide with a grin that lit up the room, and Ray immediately looked back towards the carpet, pushing down the lingering heat that crawled up his spine.

"Anyone have an Emmy lying around?" Ryan asked, scanning the room, "Because I really feel like smashing Ray's head in with one."

"No, don't kill him, Ryan," Geoff waved him down, speaking as casually as if he'd just excused Ryan from doing the dishes. He chewed on his lip thoughtfully, giving Ray a once over before turning to meet Michael's eyes. Several seconds passed, and whatever Geoff was able to determine from Michael's expression seemed to break him down, and he sighed wearily in compliance, moving to stand in front of Ray.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said, stopping only a few feet from Ray, hands in his pockets like he was delivering a truly tedious speech. "You will be with someone, night and day. You are not to be unsupervised for longer than it takes you to shit. You will be escorted, and you will be trained. You are not to drive any of our vehicles, and you will not participate in any heists, robberies, car jackings, or anything else where I might lose track of you in the chaos. You are not a member of this crew, and you will only hold a weapon when you're on the range, or when so deemed necessary. If you want to earn my trust, it's not going to come easy, and it's not going to come soon."

Ray shifted awkwardly on his feet. "So, I'm on probation then?"

"Not quite. Think of it as... your interview. Your audition. I've already seen your skills, and I won't lie to you, you'd make a hell of an asset..." Ray's breathing skipped as Geoff pulled him in by the collar of his shirt, his face only a few feet away as his voice dropped to a menacing rumble. "So, for the both of us, try to impress me in all other aspects, if you want in. If you betray my hospitality, you will not get it back."

He released Ray and turned to face Michael again, voice suddenly light. "I'm assuming you want to take over duties?"

Michael nodded, slightly bewildered, and Ray could easily see that Geoff's words had taken him by surprise. Ray's blood was hammering through his veins, and he hardly dared to believe this was real. He was running several seconds behind the rest of the room as his thoughts processed at half the speed, slowed by his shock and the uncomfortable lurch of his insides.

" _Please_ don't make me regret this, Michael," Geoff sighed, and it was earnest in all the ways a parent spoke to a child. "I know you've got your own game plan, you always do, but please let me have an inkling of control in this. Don't let your guard down, and don't leave him alone. Is he staying with you?"

Michael looked over at Ray, as if to get confirmation, _permission_ , but Ray just stared blankly back, all thoughts except transcendent hope and happiness completely crushed under the new revelation that he _wasn't_ going to be sold. Michael decided to let Ray short circuit on his own and turned back to Geoff, nodding mutely as an answer.

"All right," Geoff responded. "Ryan, in the morning I need you to weigh out about 700K of this to take over to Carlos. The extra hundred or so should placate him enough that we won't get much butthurt over not trading Narvaez. Jack, make sure that Enrique is still good to go for those cars tomorrow; I don't want us risking our necks over in Ballas territory if he's not even going to meet us for the pick up. If shit goes down in Paleto Bay, we'll be sitting ducks. Gavin, for fuck's sake, go home and get some sleep. I need everyone ready for tomorrow, so go and relax in whatever way seems best to you."

There was a collective muttering as everyone turned to leave. Even Ryan lowered his pistol, but not without a warning glare that had Ray diverting his view towards the floor again. Geoff turned from him as Jack approached, worry etched across his face as he brought up something on the screen of his phone for Geoff to narrow his eyes at. Gavin stood and stretched languidly, grabbing an entire box of pizza as he made for the exit.

Ray peered around at everyone nervously, wondering what was to be expected of him. Would he be returned to his cell? Could he converse normally, without fear of reprimand or more bruises on his arms? Was he to spend all of his time here, in this room, maybe chained to the wall, or was he free to move around as he pleased as long as he stayed within eye sight? He bit his lip, completely lost, but unwilling to interrupt Geoff to ask for guidance and direction.

Suddenly, Michael was at his side, and Ray looked over at a freckled face, a smirk forming on Michael's lips as he took in the room around him. Ryan had followed Gavin towards the exit, and Jack and Geoff were slowly edging towards Geoff's desk, out of earshot, ingrained into their conversation.

"So, that went well, right?"

Ray exhaled a huff of air he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and allowed an overwhelming sense of security pour over him. Michael was there, next to him, grounding him, and the familiarity was more than enough to finally let himself breath and believe that this was happening.

"I have to admit, when I prayed for a Hail Mary, I didn't really expect you to deliver."

Michael shrugged. "I didn't feel like tacos was really enough to make it up to you, you know?"

Ray let out a breath of laughter, rubbing his eyes as he tried to steady himself with the influx of reality. "So signing me up into Criminal Underground 101 was your next attempt? I think you should probably just admit that you like having me around, and save yourself from further dramatics."

He wanted to blanch at how very flirtatious that sounded, but Michael seemed to take it in stride, smiling as his fished around in his pocket for his car keys.

"I plead the fifth. Now, what do you say to that hardly-even-bloodstained couch I mentioned a few weeks ago?"

Ray rolled his eyes, muttered, "Charming," but followed Michael towards the door, his heart fit to beat right out of his chest.

 

///

 

Ray stared at his hands for the first three minutes, and Michael let him have his moment. The blank, disheveled look on his face apparently said more than Ray could have, and Michael seemed content to let the silence in the car become comfortable as Ray tried to wrap his head around the events of the evening.

The majority of his brain was flush with excitement, with the novelty of his new world, and eager anticipation was ringing deep within his bones. But there was a darker part of his mind that realized the severity of what he was roped into, and though it was a far cry better than being traded to the Vagos, he was very aware of the danger he was putting himself in. He knew he should be afraid, but the thought of living his life on the edge of a pin, running from the cops, gun in his hand, it filled him with a sick sort of attraction. Reminiscent of the same high he had felt when he had emptied a clip into Bruce, Michael's attacker.

And if the languid ecstasy in Michael's face when he returned from Vangelico's was anything to go by, that rush would never fade. He knew he shouldn't feel excited, _giddy_ , but he was never really one to think twice about anything, despite the rather blaring consequences.

"I can't believe this is happening," he finally muttered, only vaguely aware of how Michael was breaking the speed limit again. "I can't believe that I might..."

He trailed off, but Michael reached over and patted his shoulder in solidarity. "Believe it, man. Immersing yourself is the best thing you can do. If you start to large-scale this whole thing, you might go off the reservation a bit, so focus on the details. The here and now."

"And what is the here and now?"

Michael chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Well, Geoff is considering you for the crew, which is huge. We haven't taken in anyone new since Ryan three years ago, and even then, it was sort of unintentional."

Ray's curiosity peaked at that, but he kept his mouth shut. There was a time and place, and this wasn't it. Michael sighed.

"Is this... is this something you really want? I mean, personally, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, but I've been fucked in the head since the beginning. You, you could be fine elsewhere."

Ray considered him. It was true, he'd be able to go home, find a job while he lived with his parents, and morph back into a normal, socially-approved lifestyle. Possibly meet a girl, get married, be cookie-cutter, and hell, he'd probably be okay with that. He didn't think he'd be shouting his blessings from the rooftops, he wouldn't be sated, or _happy_ , but he'd be okay.

He stared out the window. The sky was beginning to darken, and the roads took on a deep, orange reflection. "Did you ever feel like, you were dissatisfied? Like there was an itch you couldn't quite scratch?"

Michael peeled his eyes from the road to glance at him, barely a second, but Ray felt the empathy before Michael could even speak. "Would it solidify your decision if I said 'No, not anymore'?"

Ray smiled, and willed himself to dissect Michael's mysteries later, when he had time. "Tell me what it's like, then. To be like you."

A twinge of red passed over Michael's cheeks, and Ray felt suddenly like a child that had snuck an early peek at his Christmas presents. Michael didn't meet his eyes again, but kept them trained to the street as he cleared his throat to speak.

"Well, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't glamorous. It _is_ , in every way possible. I have more money than I even know what to do with, and I've taken everything this city has to offer. It's a rush, man. The cars, the thrill, staring down death and laughing when he runs, it's insane. Once you get blood on your hands, you either turn tail and book it, or you tumble down the fucking rabbit hole." Michael exhales, a little shaken, and Ray feels right there with him, painting pictures in his mind as the words stir his imagination. "It's so good, man. I can't even describe it. It's _everything_ , and I can't live without it.

"But..." he pauses, and licks his lips. "You get your share of crap with it. I've seen police shoot down innocent pedestrians, trying to clip me. There's always crossfire, and idiots that fall into it. Car crashes that are all on you, and you see the death toll on the news later. I've killed people that didn't deserve to die, and I've let revenge get the better of me." Michael's expression hollows at this, and there's an ache in Ray's chest that isn't unlike foreboding, and it lingers as Michael continues. "You make bad decisions, just like anyone else. But here, they mean so much more. They cost people their lives, not to mention a little bit of your sanity. But, good news is, you can afford the best drugs to drown the nightmares."

Michael tries to grin at him, but it's a little broken around the edges, and Ray can't fake himself to smile back. They fall into a comfortable silence, letting Bad Company fill the blank spaces of Ray's questions and Michael's admittance. Ray feels no differently about what he wants, but he does wonder if he has anything he cares enough to lose. Michael had known pain, he'd known loss, and the only thing Ray could take from it was a stiff, cruel-hearted thankfulness that he wasn't so attached to something that it would break him if he was without it.

_Bad company, I can't deny_

_Bad, bad company, til the day I die_

 

///

 

"So, am I supposed to stay here, or what?"

He felt a little self conscious asking, but Michael paid his discomfort no mind and placed his car keys on the counter, shrugging off his jacket as he walked past Ray.

"You'll go with me wherever I go. Unless I'm out on a payload run or something, in which case they'll probably lock you up at base."

"Goody," Ray sighed, but it was light, and Michael sniggered.

"I'll gladly toss you back in the cell if you keep whining like that."

Ray groaned and threw himself across the couch as though he'd been there a thousand times before. "Please don't. They didn't even give me my pillow back. It was inhumane."

Michael raised an eyebrow before tossing his jacket next to Ray. "Any Capri Suns?" When Ray only pouted in response, Michael mumbled, "Those monsters," before kicking his shoes off towards the corner of the room.

Now that he was donned only in his shirt and pants, Ray was able to clearly see the damage that had been done at Vangelicos. Michael's arm had a large gash, several inches above the gunshot wound that was still sporting a glistening patch of healing skin. This cut was much more shallow, but it still oozed unpleasantly when Michael moved. His black shirt and jeans were covered in dust, and small shimmers reflected the lights in the room, highlighting the particles of glass caught in the fabrics. There were angry red marks on his forearms that would easily be bruises in the morning, and the knuckles on his right fist were wrapped carefully in medical tape that had been recently bloodied.

Michael followed Ray's line of vision and gave his body a once over, making a face. "Yeah, I reek. I'm gonna take a shower." He turned towards the stairway, all pretense of supervising Ray forgotten before he stiffened, turned back, and cast Ray a patronizing expression. "I don't need to handcuff you, do I?"

Ray kicked his feet up on the coffee table. "Regular handcuffs, or the fuzzy ones?"

Michael gestured pointedly to the state of his clothes and his mangled body, "Does it look like I care too much about comfort?"

Ray scoffed a laugh, looking around the couch for the remote, unable to meet Michael's eyes. "I'll be good, swear."

Michael let out a breath, scratching his head like he wasn't sure where to go from there. "Cool. Um, remote is around there somewhere. Between the cushions, maybe. Help yourself to the liquor cabinet, and there's food in the fridge. Just, you know, use the microwave to heat it up. Or whatever."

Ray rolled his eyes, trying desperately to not focus on how easy this conversation was. "When you get back, do you think you can teach me how to operate this new-fangled light switch everyone has been yapping about?"

Michael flipped him off, and disappeared down the stairway, heavy footsteps echoing through the otherwise silent condo. Ray gave up his search for the remote, sidetracked by the childish desire to snoop around the room, and he didn't want to miss the eventual sound of the water shutting off and Michael catching him in the act. He waited, wanting to be sure that the coast was clear before he moved, and found himself staring down at Michael's discarded jacket.

Leaving his better judgement wallowing in the dust, he reached out and pulled the leather towards him, feeling the heavy weight against his fingertips. It was expensive, easily a $300 purchase, but it was old and well loved. The fabric around the cuffs had torn more than once, and it looked like Michael had tried to stitch it back together himself, if the jagged inseams were anything to go by. The worst one was fresh, where the guard had knicked him, and blood still stained the trim from the rip. The jacket's edges were rough and worn, and the color had begun to fade. It needed to be replaced.

Ray ran his fingers down the sleeve, feelings the pads of his fingers catch against the pull of the leather, and titled his head in thought. Michael had more than enough funds to buy a new jacket, a better one, honestly, but care had been taken to keep this one looking as fresh as possible, given his line of work. It was sentimental.

He put the jacket down quickly, overcome with the jolting feeling that he was intruding on something he ought not to be. He heard the shower start somewhere on the floor below him, and he decided to shift his curiosity elsewhere.

The room held a fine amount of decor, though if Ray were the judge of character he'd like to think he was, Michael didn't have anything to do with it. In all likelihood, the condo had come pre-furnished, and Michael seemed to have little, if any, influence of the general aesthetic of the home. Personal touches adorned the area, like the Xbox placed carefully on a table under the television, while the shelf underneath held an impressive collection of green-trimmed game cases. There was a small pile of papers on the corner of the bar, and a laptop that had found itself nestled into a large armchair by the fireplace.

Ray felt himself deflate a bit at the thought of not having anything to snoop through that wouldn't be immediately obvious, but a sliver of guilt cut through his disappointment. Michael had trusted him alone in his condo, was he really about to risk that kindness for a brief moment of self-satisfied curiosity?

He huffed a sigh and turned on the Xbox instead, changing the input on the TV until the large, green Xbox logo swam into view. Michael had automated his sign in, and Ray smiled when "MLP Michael" showed up in the top lefthand corner. For Michael's sake, Ray really, really hoped that 'MLP' didn't stand for what he thought it did.

Ray spent the next fifteen minutes scrolling through the installed games, taking note of Michael's hefty gamerscore and appreciating that they were both apparent completionists. He was so distracted by putting in the disc for _Far Cry 4_ (something had he had wanted to play for some time, but didn't have the extra cash for), that he didn't even notice Michael emerging from downstairs.

"Holy shit--" Ray started, putting a hand to his chest and mimicking a heart attack as Michael grinned over at him, wet hair still plastered to his face. "Someone should put a bell on you."

"Stealth, amigo," Michael replied happily, tossing himself onto the couch and shaking the remaining drops of water from his hair. "Turns out, you have to be good at it to not get shot."

"Hmm. The bullet wound on your arm says you need some practice," Ray hummed pleasantly.

"Yeah, well, you jumping six feet out of your fucking skin says I don't. What are you playing?"

Ray realized belatedly that he probably should have asked. "Oh. _Far Cry_. Sorry, I should have asked if it was cool first, but I'm really into games--"

"You're really into games, and you haven't played _Far Cry 4_ yet?" Michael shot him a condescending look. "I'm ashamed of you."

Ray glared at him in response, taking the controller with him as he sat back down on the couch. He chose the couch Michael had flung himself down on, since it had the best angle to the television, and he prayed to God that Michael wouldn't question it.

"Yeah, well, we don't all have thousands of dollars in our bank accounts to blow, do we?"

Michael only chuckled in response, and suddenly Ray was met with a face full of clothes. As they fell into his lap, he recognized a new shirt, softer and larger than the ones he had been wearing, and plain, cotton pajama pants. "What is this, charity?"

Michael shrugged, looking as calm and collected as ever. "Hey, if you want to sleep in jeans, be my guest. Although, I'm pretty sure those are my jeans, and I can promise you, they are hell to try and get comfortable in."

"And there's the bitchfest," Ray grinned, but his expression softened as he folded the clothes neatly in his hands, realization dawning as to just how much Michael had been there for him in the past weeks, even if Ray had been too strung out on tedious boredom and nervous breakdowns to notice. He cleared his throat. "Thanks though. I mean it. I can't imagine what I would have smelled like if you hadn't kept dropping off clothes for me. Not to mention I'd have probably drowned myself in the toilet if I hadn't been able to brush my teeth for three weeks."

Michael shrugged in that noncommittal sort of way that people do when they don't know how to accept a compliment, and rose to his feet. "Don't worry about it, man. Like I said, I kind of owed you."

He wandered over to the counter where his cell phone lay discarded atop the pile of mystery paperwork. Ray cursed himself internally as he let his eyesight linger too long on the slope of Michael's back, and the broad expanse of shoulders hidden beneath a baggy _Counter Strike_ shirt. His sweatpants weren't able to conceal the jut of his hipbones, and the blackened bruise was that visible when Michael's shirt rose a little too far.

Ray shook himself.

_Little gay, man._

But Michael was already walking back, having missed Ray's temporary lapse of both judgement and heterosexual thoughts. He waved the phone happily at him. "Pizza?"

"Fuck, _yes_ ," Ray moaned in response, throwing his head back onto the couch. "All they fed me was shitty burgers and snack food. I got Subway, like, twice."

"Poor baby," Michael crooned in mockery, scrolling through a contacts list as he sat back down next to Ray. "Seriously though, we've got some time before we have to be back. There's that whole deal with the cars tomorrow, so I'll need to sleep eventually, but if you're up for it, we could chill for awhile. Pizza and co-op."

Ray wants to pinch himself, because, honestly, he can't imagine anything better the world could offer him right now. The chaos outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was darkened, and streams of headlights could be seen littering the ground far below him. High rise buildings surrounded them, giving Ray a taste of luxury that had all but unattainable to him month ago. He couldn't even hear the sirens anymore.

He was going to be in a crew. Well, considered for one. He _wanted_ it, more than he had ever wanted anything else, and the reality was sinking into him like a beautiful, irresistible drug.

And Michael, the man that ruined him, was making it happen.

"Hey, Michael?"

Michael looked up from his phone, finger poised above a contact number, "What?"

And of course it figured that Michael, professional underground fighter and demolition expert, would have pizza delivery readily available in his phone. Ray smiled at how absolutely ludicrous his life was becoming, and the clarity it was affording him.

He motioned towards Michael's gamertag on the screen, "Fluttershy sucks."

"You suck," Michael mumbled in response, and it was weak, especially when it was coupled with a smile, but that was okay. Ray's bones felt like jelly anyway. He closed his eyes as Michael pressed the phone to his ear, and felt absolute bliss flow through him.


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; I've been busy moving halfway across the country.

Ray spent the majority of the evening studying Michael as inconspicuously as he could. Something about the man was jarring him, taking a stark contrast to the comfort that he was able to envelope the room in, and the dichotomy sent Ray reeling for a stable connection between the two.

Humor flowed effortlessly, and Michael was fine with letting Ray move freely about the adjoining rooms in his quest for the bathroom. Ray mused, initially, that maybe easily-rendered trust was just something of a character flaw, but he didn’t miss the way Michael slipped his subcompact Springfield into the back hem of his pants when he answered the door for pizza. It left him bewildered, but Ray didn’t pride himself on pursuing answers he knew he would never get, so he pushed the curiosity revolving Michael’s trust to the side.

“Bon appetit,” Michael sang happily, throwing down the pizza box on the table in front of them before relaxing back into the couch. “Fuck, I’m sore. You should see the bruises on my chest, man. Thank god for those vests.”

“Good thing you’re not transporting an illegal Italian sports car tomorrow, right?”

Michael shot Ray a dirty look as he lifted the top of the box and helped himself to a slice. “Do you speak anything but sarcasm? I’m pretty fluent, but I feel like you’re giving me a run for my money.”

Ray grinned, setting down his controller and letting Ajay take in his Himalayan settings. “Jealousy is a good look on you, I think. If I get you angry enough, do you Hulk out?”

“You’re a real bitch, Narvaez.”

“Oh, are we back to a professional relationship?” Ray laughed, following Michael’s lead and snagging a piece of pizza. “As long as I still get the hardly-bloodstained couch instead of the cot, feel free to call me whatever you want.”

“I’ll stick with Bitch for the immediate future,” Michael smiled, “Or at least until you stop acting like one.”

“You’re judging me for the apartment thing, aren’t you?”

Michael suddenly broke out into hearty laughter, and Ray looked over at him, failing spectacularly at keeping the smile from his face as Michael choked his humor back enough to speak, “Dude, you should have seen your face. You _hated_ me. I couldn’t tell if you were more scared, or more pissed.”

“Definitely more pissed,” Ray acquiesced, chewing thoughtfully before he swallowed. “That’s the weird thing, isn’t it? I wasn’t really freaked until Bruce came in; I was mostly just angry at you. And my luck, I guess,” he added, as an afterthought.

“Your luck? The hell does that mean?”

Ray wiped his hands on his jeans carelessly, before remembering that they were _Michael’s_ jeans, but Michael didn’t seem bothered, just waited patiently for an answer while Ray picked the controller back up to resume his game.

“Think about it. What are the chances that the asshole that robbed the store I worked at--that’s you, by the way. You’re the asshole,” (Michael scoffed in response), “--would end up bleeding and bitching his way into my apartment? I mean, either ruin my job or ruin my home, why’d you have to do both?”

Michael shrugged, and that guilt that had been so present before was almost completely faded by the sated smile that crossed his features. “Hey, I’ve made up for it, haven’t I?”

Ray bit his lip, trying to hide his amusement as he maneuvered Ajay into a derelict jeep. “Oh, is that how you apologize to people? Coercing them into the criminal underground to break laws right alongside you?”

Michael slipped another piece of pizza from the box, eyes focused on Ray’s game. “It’s literally the best apology I can give.”

Ray took to radio silence after that, pushing Michael’s blatant admittance around in his head and trying to convince himself that it wasn’t as profound as he was imagining it to be. Michael showed no signs of sensing Ray’s mental considerations, and spent the next two hours offering Ray helpful hints and pointers through the main storyline, laughing when Ray admitted that he was saving his virtual, in-game money to coat his entire arsenal in a sheen of hot pink paint.

Michael seemed content to ignore the blaring fact that, two weeks ago, he’d had the barrel of his gun pressed against Ray’s skull. That he had been intent on robbing him and abandoning him to the city, just as (Ray presumed), he had done to dozens before. Ray would have had to pawn all of his belongings just to afford the gas it would take to go grovelling back to his parents, who were likely already renting out his room to fund their gambling addiction.

He wanted to berate Michael for what he had almost done, but each time he quickly swallowed his tongue at the realization that he just didn’t _care._ He had never imagined this outcome, never would have believed he’d be in a penthouse with one of Los Santos top criminals, eating pizza and awaiting possible initiation. He wouldn’t have dreamed it, wouldn’t even have believed he _wanted_ it if he hadn’t been fully immersed by no choice of his own.

Michael had been a dick, sure. He'd ruined the life Ray had, and would have ruined it even more if Ray hadn’t saved him with a fumbled gun and an inkling of hope. But Michael had put his life on the line to repay him, to liberate him from a future that promised neither prosperity nor longevity, and he had made it up to him in the only way he knew how. It was selfish, Ray knew that, and Michael might not give two shits about him if he hadn’t proved proficient with handling a weapon, but overall, Michael had more than payed him back. He’d given him something better.

Ray was torn from his thoughts when Michael, happy and full of six slices of pizza, blurted out, “What happened in Kansas, anyway?”

Ray flushed, and decidedly avoided Michael’s questioning eyes. “What, Gavin didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Michael responded ruefully. “Just laughed, and told me to ask you if I was so interested. He’s a dick when he wants to be.”

Ray snorted, agreeing, but Michael prompted him again, and he sighed. “Alright. I’ll tell you, but only if you answer a question I have.”

Michael chewed his lip thoughtfully, stifling a smile. “Boy, I sure have missed the second grade. Should we do truth or dare next?”

“Fine,” Ray shrugged, “Make fun all you want, it won’t get you your answers.”

A calm silence followed, and Ray could almost hear the gears turning in Michael’s head as he worked through Ray’s deal. Ray started counting down from 20, but he hadn’t even reached single digits before Michael was relenting.

“Yeah, alright. But no questions about my--”

“The crew, yeah, I know--”

“ _And_ no questions about Bruce.”

 _Damn_ , Ray cursed internally, and frantically started trying to pinpoint a single question that he had about Michael that wasn’t related to the people he worked with, or his inconstruable past. He pushed it to the side, momentarily, to answer Michael’s question.

“When I left with Andrew, we stopped in a lot of cities on our way here. We had pulled over in Kansas at bum-fuck o’clock at night, and he had gone inside a diner to get us some food. I was hovering around outside, I don’t like people much…”

He glanced at Michael, who was biting his lower lip in an attempt to withhold a grin.

“Michael, I swear to god if you laugh at me--”

“I won’t! I mean, I probably will, but just pretend I won’t. Keep going.”

Ray side-eyed the fuck out of him, but picked up where he left off. “Anyway. There was a woman sitting on top of her car, really pretty, and she came up and started talking to me. Said her sister was inside too, and offered to keep me company. She was flirty as fuck, but she was dressed normal, so I figured…” he paused, uncomfortable, and Michael snorted in amusement. “Look, I hadn’t been laid in months, okay! I asked her if she wanted to fool around, and it was mostly a joke, I _swear,_ because I’m absolute shit at normal conversation, and next thing I know there’s a cop car pulling up, and she’s whipping out her badge…”

Michael burst out laughing, trying to hide his face in his hands as Ray stared him down, admonished.

“You’re so stupid,” Michael giggled, refusing to meet Ray’s eyes. “They make _TV shows_ about stupid people like you.”

“Fuck you,” Ray quipped back, but Michael’s laughter was intoxicating, and a smile was fitting across his face before he was even aware enough to stop it. “I hadn’t offered to pay her or anything, so I didn’t really commit a crime. They let me go once I told them that I was just...well…”

“Stupid?” Michael offered, and Ray turned away from his game to glare at him.

“Laugh all you want, but it’s my turn,” he paused for a heartbeat before his eyes fell on the familiar brown fabric folded against the couch, “What’s the deal with the jacket?”

Michael’s laughter faded, and he met Ray’s eyes with a strange sort of emptiness, like it hadn’t been what he was expecting, and a sadness was washing over him that he didn’t expect. Ray immediately felt the twinges of regret as Michael’s smile slipped from his face.

“Hey, I didn’t realize it was…It just looked sentimental, so I thought... I’ll ask something else, yeah?”

Michael cleared his throat, looking both thankful at the offer yet oddly conflicted, like he was still trying to understand Ray’s question. “Yeah. It’s sentimental. I’ll, um...maybe another time. You got something else?”

Ray swallowed, the uncomfortable awareness that he had posed too many inappropriate questions in the past two weeks coursing through him like lead in his veins. He desperately tried to think of something less intrusive, something unrelated to Michael’s crew, to the mysterious assassins that had chased him for years, to the oddly treasured brown leather jacket that lay draped across the sofa as if in a place of honor.

His thoughts drifted to the damage that jacket had taken. Shards of glass, layers of dust and hastily extinguished fires. The stitching that had sewn together the tears from bullets and knives brought the image of Michael to life, seeking cover around the wall of a building, bits of plaster and stucco flying off and clouding around his feet as he held his breath, counting the shots until the enemy had to reload, before losing cover just enough to get a mark, his finger pulling the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. The imagined scenario was vivid, and Ray felt his stomach bottom out.

“Aren't you ever scared?”

The words tumbled out before Ray could truly process it into something coherent, but Michael looked at him expectantly, neither embarrassed nor mocking, and waited for Ray to continue, to deconstruct.

“I mean, everyday you’re in danger, right?" Ray reasoned, pulling strength from the edges of his frayed embarrassment, determined to recover, "People shooting at you, trying to stick a blade in your back, yadda yadda. And all these heists, the car chases, the police… your survival rate isn’t exactly spiking upwards, you know? Aren’t you terrified?”

Michael only smirked in response, the edges of his mouth curling up into something promising, something teasing. Ray realized that Michael had already given his answer dozens of times before, both in the way he moved, careless and chaotic, and in the passionate fire that swallowed his pupils and drowned his regrets. But still, Michael humored him, and his answer was confident, honest, and brazen. 

“You can’t be scared when you’re having this much fun.”

Ray let the divulgence sink into him and a small silence passed, both comfortable and contemplative. Ray ran Michael’s words around in his head as he played, both his admittances and his avoidances, but before the hour had passed, he was no closer towards figuring out Michael’s motivators than he had been three weeks ago. But at least now, he felt as though he had  _time._ He would be able to learn everything Michael had to offer, and if he was lucky, things about Michael himself could be brought to light without being accompanied by that hollow expression and thousand yard stare. 

Finally, Michael rose, checking the time in his phone. “I’m going to be honest, I haven’t slept in about 30 hours, and as much as I love watching you be better at this game than me--total bullshit, by the way--I need to get some fucking sleep before tomorrow.”

“Right,” Ray responded instantly, torn from the friendly banter that they had established between them, and the deep thought he had let himself sink into. For a moment, he had forgotten about the car delivery tomorrow, and that Michael had robbed a high-end jewelry store no more than six hours ago. “So, I’m out here then?”

Michael studied him for a moment, a habit Ray was becoming familiar with, even if he felt like an open book whenever it happened. “Yeah. Sorry, but I’ve still got to tie you up. If Geoff finds out I didn’t, at least for now, he’ll have you stay with Ryan instead.”

“Yeah, no. Tie me up please.”

Michael’s eyes gleamed, and he grinned at Ray as he moved to get up. “Oh, if I had a fucking nickel…”

Ray felt the blush creeping up the back of his neck, but he resolutely ignored it. Two dudes talking about fucking, that was normal, _totally_ normal. That was as normal as he was likely going to get anymore, and there was absolutely no inclination that Ray needed to look into, regardless of the insinuations Michael’s eyes had been giving him.

 _Goddamnit_.

He searched frantically for a change of subject as Michael shifted through drawers in his kitchen.

“Speaking of Geoff, why is he so certain that I’m going to fuck you over?”

Michael waited to respond until he was back at Ray’s side with a length of thin but sturdy chain, looking appropriately forlorn at the thought of having to restrain Ray again when it was plainly obvious that Ray had no intentions of leaving. “Sorry, you’ve used up all your barter questions, Raymundo. Do you want your hands up front, so you can keep playing?”

“If it’s cool,” Ray mumbled in response, and he could immediately tell that Michael was half-assing Geoff’s orders. He placed a towel around Ray’s joined wrists first, so that the chain wouldn’t cut into him and add more bruising to the red rings that still stood out prominently on his skin, and the looping was loose and tolerable. Once Ray’s arms were relatively secure, Michael took the remaining length of chain and secured it to a D-ring anchor that was half-hidden underneath the couch.

“The fuck do you have that for?” Ray asked, curiosity winning out over apprehension as Michael locked the chain down and straightened up to admire his lazy handiwork.

“Like I’ve never been attacked in my own home,” he rolled his eyes, as if the answer should have been glaringly obvious. “Gotta have something to anchor the ties to if you want a good and proper interrogation.”

“Shucks, and I was only given a wooden chair during mine.”

“That was them,” Michael offered as his only explanation, handing Ray his controller, “And this is me. Have a good night, and don’t bother yelling if you need me. I’ll be fucking _out.”_

It isn’t a comforting dismissal, and Ray watched Michael retreat to his room downstairs, desperately hoping he wouldn’t have to take a piss until morning.

 

 

///

 

 

Ray could definitely see the downside to the bright, beautiful windows that adorned Michael’s penthouse when he was woken by the blinding late morning sunlight beating down against them. He blinked, trying to shut out the promise of a new day for just a few more moments, but he was instantly snapped back to reality when he went to rub his eyes and the sound of a chain jingled brightly below him.

He glanced down, squinting slightly, and was surprised to find the chain already unhooked from the D-ring, sliding gently over the floor as he sat up to curiously pull it off of his unhappy wrists. Michael had already unlatched him.

“You were drooling on my couch.”

Michael’s voice startled him, and Ray turned around to find him fiddling with a coffee maker, jabbing at the buttons harder than necessary. If the grumpy expression on his face was anything to go by, Michael was definitely not a morning person, and Ray allowed himself the small luxury of seeing Michael completely out of his element, hair in a haphazard disarray and his too-long pajama bottoms dragging across the floor as Michael stepped on them carelessly.

“Don’t worry,” Ray yawned, wincing as his jaw cracked. “I’m sure it’ll fit in real nice with the blood stains.”

Michael smiled groggily but didn’t respond, so Ray fully freed himself from the chain and stumbled off towards the bathroom before the need became urgent. When he returned, bladder empty and the tang of mouthwash still festering unpleasantly, Michael had taken his place on the couch, a steaming mug of coffee on the table in front of him while he held the entire box of leftover pizza closely against his chest, like a greedy child. The TV was in copter-cam, with another car chase winning out over the other, less engaging news reports.

“You uh, wanna share there, boss?” Ray asked as he sat down at the other end, motioning vaguely for the box of pizza.

He expected a weary, half-asleep glare as a response, but instead, Michael smiled at him. “Boss? I could get used to that. Sure.”

He held out the box for Ray to take, and they fell into comfortable conversation. Ray fetched himself a Coke from the fridge, at Michael’s bidding, and they watched the news coverage together, scarfing down pizza like they hadn’t eaten in days. Michael pointed out every blunder the perpetrators did, from their ineptitude of handling vehicles, to the tacky 'spray and pray' mindset most petty criminals favored. He even explained the route mistakes, how you should know the city before you try and make a high-speed getaway, and motioned towards the television, where the two men had to make a run for it on foot after encountering the 8AM traffic congestion across the 5.

Ray listened closely, hardly as surprised as he would have been earlier. He had never seen Michael’s crew in action, but their surplus, security, and intel surmised a group with focus, with intelligence. Ray found himself overwhelmed with the desire to know what feats they had accomplished in the past, and how much of their operation he’d be able to see today.

Finally, once the box was completely empty, and an ambulance was arriving on scene for the bodies of the perps, Michael stood up and motioned for Ray to do the same. “C’mon, kid. Time to go.”

 

 

///

 

 

To Ray’s relief, the crew was so engrossed in planning and preparation that they paid little to no attention to him. Jack had been pouring over road maps when Michael led him inside, and Gavin and Ryan stood close by, listening intently and pointing at various locations on the map, questions passing their lips that Ray couldn’t hear. Geoff was behind his computer, and for once, the bottle of whiskey on his desk remained sealed. His eyes were focused on the screen in front of him, brow slightly wrinkled in a studious fashion, and Ray was all too happy to go sit on the far couch where Michael directed him, away from the activity.

Michael shot Ray a meaningful look that conveyed nothing but _behave_ before abandoning him to stand behind Geoff, tossing a casual greeting and leaning down to study the screen that had Geoff’s enraptured attentions. Ray avoided watching them further, as much as he’d like to, and instead directed his attention to the TV, fully prepared to be ignored for several hours.

For his luck, though, barely twenty minutes had passed before Geoff was gathering them all up in front of the whiteboard that hung next to the table. Everyone drew up a chair, chatter slowly dying, and Ray watched curiously from over the back of the sofa, feeling quite like a child that snuck down the stairs after bedtime. Geoff cleared his throat, and Ray sunk down further into the cushions to avoid being a distraction.

“Alright, we’ve got three hours until we need to be at our marks, so one last run-through, then we’re splitting up.”

“Geoffrey,” Gavin interrupted immediately, already sounding legitimately bored. “We’ve been through it already. Can we skip it this time, please?”

“Gavin, when you run your own crew, you can do what you want. Until then, shut up and listen.”

Gavin started to protest, but Michael shot him an incredulous glare. “Gavin, are you fucking serious? You need the extra run-through more than anyone. We haven’t had a single heist you haven’t fucked up at some point!”

Gavin put a hand against his heart, feigning shock. “Michael! Please.”

“Shut up and pay attention,” Michael grumbled in response, turning back towards Geoff, who was patiently waiting for their argument to end. “Geoff, would you kindly continue?”

Ray smirked, feeling like he may not be so bored after all.

“Alright, now that everyone’s on board,” Geoff started again, shooting a warning glance at Gavin, who remained obediently silent. “Let’s get started.”

He uncapped a black marker and began marking street names as he spoke. “Okay. So we’ve got four Lampadati Felon’s waiting for pickup. The white one is over at Caesars Auto Parking at Pillbox Hill, fifth level. Gavin, you’re taking that one, as it’ll have drawn the least amount of attention and will be far more secure. There’s a blue one parked behind Caca clothing in Rockford Hills -- Michael, that one’s all you. There’s likely to be gang activity in the area, and you’ll be lucky if they haven’t already spotted it by the time you get there. Bind your hands, you’ll probably need them.”

Michael nodded, and instead of looking intimidated, Ray saw a visceral smirk slide across his face, and Ray’s stomach bottomed out at the realization that Michael was _excited_ at the thought of a fight. This reaction was apparently commonplace, as Geoff continued without concern.

“Ryan, there’s a black one parked in front of the Templar hotel, and I need _you_ there. The cops are going to be swarmed around that one if anything goes wrong, and you always do as little damage as possible to the vehicle. I’m going to be picking up the red one down by the pier, and Jack is going to be on surveillance. The lock-up is down at the south-west portion of the harbor, where we blew up that fire truck once. Your garage will be spray painted with a marking coordinating with the color of the vehicle, and we get paid based on the condition of the car, so _please_ don’t fuck them up too badly. Each one has about $300,000 in illegal modifiers, so there’s a lot of money riding on this.”

Geoff paused to look at each one of them in turn, as if daring them to fuck this up. When everyone seemed appropriately somber and serious, he turned back to the board, which was now nothing more than a chaotic disarray of markings.

“I want bulletproof vests on all of you, at the least. Ryan, you’re allowed a few grenades in addition to your pistol if you need to lose potential cops in your special brand of anarchy, but do _not damage the fucking car_. I’m so serious, you guys. Gavin, take a SMG, because you’re shit at basically everything else, but don’t fire unless you absolutely have to. Michael, I’d prefer you wear the armored gloves, but I know you hate them, so I won’t force you. Suit up as best you can though, I’m expecting the most problems to stem from your location. Jack, make sure everyone is connected and online through the earpiece, and I want GPS locations on all of us up and running before we leave.”

Everyone nodded or mumbled their consent and moved quickly, breaking up the small circle to head towards the far door. Geoff and Jack stayed behind, and while Jack made a beeline straight for the computer behind the desk, Geoff finally turned his attention towards Ray, who was still hovering quietly on the couch.

“Morning, Geoff!” Ray supplied, hoping his cheer was enough to placate the agitation that graced Geoff’s face.

It wasn’t.

“Shut up, Narvaez,” Geoff spat back, but it still lacked that defining intensity, and Ray was all too aware that Geoff was wearing his nerves and trepidation on his sleeve.

“I’m okay here? Will I be in the way?”

Geoff seemed surprised at Ray’s attitude, as though he had expected anger, malevolence, but stowed the expression quickly and nodded his acquiescence. “Yes, you’re fine. But I expect you to stay there, and listen to everything Jack tells you to do while we’re gone. Remember that he’s armed, and he cares much less about you than Michael does.”

“Noted,” Ray said, and retreated to the far end of the couch, content to watch his surroundings and be of little interference as possible. It was hardly a feat, since his eyes could barely take in all that he wanted to see, and his mind was wild with the possibilities of one day being someone who could sit in one of those chairs, given directions and trusted with weapons and Italian cars and life or death scenarios. He wanted to be a part of this. But first and foremost, he wanted to _witness_ it.

The remainder of the crew returned shortly, first with Ryan, who carried a satchel of grenades as easily as he carried the grin across his face. He was already wearing his vest, hidden smartly underneath his casual black shirt, but he also held a small box underneath his arm that Ray didn’t recognize. Gavin followed several minutes afterwards, his arms burdened with ammunition and two sets of vests, while a small SMG was slung over his shoulder, bouncing around carelessly. Geoff moved forward to help him, and cleared the way for Michael.

Michael was relatively empty-handed compared to Gavin, and was slowly unrolling a handwrap as he stepped over the threshold and avoided the dropped mags that Gavin abruptly scattered across the floor, much to Geoff’s dismay. Michael had also already donned his vest, begging for attention against his blood-red shirt. His Springfield was still tucked into the back of his pants, and Ray could see Geoff eyeing him disapprovingly for it, though he kept his mouth shut.

Geoff proceeded to help Gavin unload his armful, taking one of the vests for himself and distributing the magazines into separate piles. Jack was positioning additional monitors across the desk, plugging cords and powering black boxes like it was second nature. Ryan retreated to the end of the table, opening the small wooden box that housed a mirror under the lid, and placed several tubes of what looked to be white and blue-labeled makeup in front of him. He began to uncap the red one, and as much as Ray wanted to watch whatever the _fuck_ he was about to do, he definitely didn’t want to make accidental eye contact, so he turned to focus on the only subject he was comfortable with.

Michael was wrapping his left hand, the roll of material layering between his fingers so quickly he suspected that Michael could do it with his eyes closed. He finished easily, securing the velcro latch right above the wrist, and proceeded to hook his right thumb around the beginnings of the second wrap. Before he could go further though, Gavin appeared at his side and took the end of the wrap from Michael, smiling around words Ray was too far away to hear. Michael nodded and held out his hand, letting Gavin twist and turn the material expertly across his knuckles and wrist while they fell into an easy, happy conversation.

Ray felt a strange pang in his gut, and his fingers flexed on their own account, urging him to do something. He turned his eyes away, trying to process whether it was Gavin’s presence that irritated him, or his proximity to something that Ray in _no_ way was willing to admit he wanted to lay claim over. Mentally, he was already nailing that proverbial coffin closed, because as far as social constructs went, he was entirely out of his element, not to mention his comfort zone.

Instead, he gazed on them as a whole. A functioning unit. Jack was maneuvering between them, securing earpieces and checking the fits of their vests and holsters. Additional ammo was placed in pockets, and jackets were shrugged on to conceal as much as possible. Ryan finally joined the rest of them, face painted a startling concinnity of red and black, and Ray held back the tremor of consternation that Ryan’s new persona was able to elicit from him.

“Alright,” Geoff announced, “Everyone good?”

“Good to go,” Gavin replied, slinging the SMG over his shoulder. Ryan nodded beside him, a silent composure that did little to ease Ray’s discomfort. Michael curled his fingers into fists before grinning broadly, pleased with himself, and Geoff took it as an acceptable answer and shifted his gaze towards Jack.

“Jack, everything set on your end?”

Jack, with headphones over his ears and his eyes glimmering with focus behind his glasses, gave Geoff a prompt thumbs up. “You’re all up on the mic, and GPS is activated. Running like normal.”

“Okay bitches,” Geoff grinned, “It’s go time. Gavin, Michael is dropping you off along the way, and Ryan, you’re with me. Let’s keep it clean and easy, and make some fucking money!”

Michael cheered and Gavin laughed, and for a moment, Ray lost himself and moved to leave with them, before realizing his place and sinking back into the cushions beneath him. The door closed, and suddenly, the room was quiet, and the only distinguishable sound was the retreating, eager footsteps on the stairway.

The minutes passed slowly, with Jack confirming their earpieces were working correctly and that the GPS was still running smooth. Ray drummed his fingers on the couch, wondering cynically if maybe he should change the channel to a news station in the unfortunate event the cops caught wind of them. Maybe then he could have an inkling of what was going on.

He wasn’t aware Jack was watching him until he spoke. “You can come back here, Ray. Get a chair”

He shifted, unused to having Jack speak to him, and hardly expecting it to be on a first name basis. “Really?”

Jack nodded, and Ray was on his feet instantly, moving away from the couch and stepping cautiously over the multitude of wires that littered the floor around the desk. He grabbed an additional chair from the table and finagled it carefully behind Jack, putting himself at an arm's distance so as not to be in the way of anything Jack needed.

“Is this good?”

“Yup, you’re fine. Just don’t touch anything, and don’t speak when they’re speaking.”

Ray was about to ask how he’d know when they spoke, but his words caught in his throat when Jack pulled another connected headset from a drawer and handed it to him, a clear smile in his eyes. “The mic is turned off on this one, but you’ll be able to hear everything just fine. Don’t interrupt them, and if they start to speak, you shut up right away, because I need to hear everything they say. And whatever happens, you stay right in that chair. Don’t move, don’t panic, and _don’t_ try to help.”

Ray nodded quickly, completely overwhelmed at what Jack was giving him. He wasn’t sure if Geoff had okayed it beforehand, or if Jack had just felt sorry for his pathetic ass, sitting alone and abandoned on the couch. Either way, his seat for their heist had just been bumped up to the VIP experience, and he wasn’t about to question a single goddamn thing.

Three monitors were laid out in front of Jack, and Ray studied them quickly while he slipped the headset over his ears. The one in the middle was a sprawling, blacked out map, with colored dots for each of the crew members, blinking rapidly as they moved quickly down the unmarked streets. Two were blurred together, and Ray could only assume that one pair of them hadn’t split up yet. There were dozens of other dots, all red, each labeled with the letter P and a pair of numbers after them. Police units.

The left hand monitor was a camera feed, split into four sections for each of the four Felon’s. They were all parked neatly, awaiting their pickup, and the general populous seemed to be ignoring them. The right hand monitor was another map, but this one was a satellite feed, with heavy detailing for streets and freeways, and highlights for traffic blocks, The GPS had been activated on this map as well, but the crew was nearly lost in the vibrancy of real-life imagery.

There was a low sound of engine in the earmuffs, and even though Jack had told him his microphone was off, he tried to breath shallowly so no one would be able to hear him. A car door opened, and Ray looked towards the middle monitor, where the two interlocked blinking dots had stopped.

“Alright, Gavin’s at his location, I’m leaving for Rockford Hills.”

He’d expected Michael’s voice to sound fuzzy through the headset, but it rang clear as day, as though Ray had been sitting in the car next to him. He glanced towards the left monitor to find Gavin casually approaching the white Felon, throwing a swift, calculating look in all directions before opening the door and slipping inside. In the upper corner, he could see Ryan doing the same to his, painted face blaring intimidation through the screen.

“Got it, Michael. Ryan, you’re good to go whenever ready. Cops are sparse in the area today; there’s a gang shootout over in Little Seoul that has their attention, for whatever reason.”

“That’s Marcus,” Geoff cut in over the faint sound of his roaring engine, “He knows what we’re up to today, and he decided to create a little distraction for us. Pissed off Bonelli, as it were.”

“Does that asshole still want in the crew?” came Michael’s laughter, “He’s been after your dick for what, five years now, Geoff?”

Geoff sighed, and his discomfort was tangible, even through the headset. “Yeah, about. I’ll give him a few grand after this, see if it’ll keep his grovelling away for awhile.”

Another car door shut, and Ray glanced to the left monitor, watching as Geoff strode coolly up to the red Felon, sliding in with a graceful poise that only a man in a well-worn suit could master.

“Just don’t let him know about Narvaez,” came Gavin’s chuckle, “Rinsy little prick will blow his own head off if he finds out you let some bloody new guy in.”

“Boohoo,” Geoff responded. “Maybe if he showed a talent other than weaseling his way through life he’d have a shot. Everyone shut up and focus.”

Radio silence followed, and Ray tried not to think too heavily on the conversation he’d just overheard. It seemed ridiculous to think that other, petty criminals weren’t privy to becoming initiated into Geoff’s crew, but Ray was finally starting to realize how lucky he was to be in his position, irony notwithstanding. This guy had been trying for _years_ , and Ray had waltzed himself into a promising future with nothing but sarcasm and a calm trigger finger.

But perhaps the hardest to believe was that Geoff didn’t sound too resentful when he didn’t believe Ray was around to hear him. He glanced at Jack, worried that he had overheard something he wasn’t supposed to, but Jack appeared entirely unfazed, eyes focused to the monitors. Ray followed his gaze, looking towards the left hand surveillance feed, where only Michael’s blue car remained, hidden behind the building in a small parking lot. Two men in striped shirts had slid into the camera's field of view, gesturing towards parts of the car together, likely noticing the obvious modifications and growing excited at the find.

Jack was already aware. “Heads up, Michael. Two Aztecas are scoping out.”

“I see them,” Michael’s voice sounded heavy in Ray’s ears, full of focus and determination. “I’m pulling up across the street now.”

“Be careful, Michael,” Geoff warned, “We’re all out for delivery, but if you need us, we’re here.”

Jack’s eyes flicked over to the middle map, then back again, “Ryan, you’re closest. Could you circle the area a few times without attracting suspicion?”

“No need,” Michael cut in with a growl, “You guys do your thing, this will be over in a minute.”

As he spoke, Ray could see Michael’s figure approaching the car. His posture was his own, completely at odds with Gavin’s casual, everyman appearance, Geoff’s fluid and precise movements, and Ryan’s stiff, intimidating figure; he was aggressive, a fight-monger, and it showed with how his head tilted in a lethal invitation.

“You guys see something you like?”

Watching him speak on the monitor and hearing the sound in his head was unnerving, and Ray could feel the blood in his veins pumping faster. Ever since Michael had told him about his proficiency in underground fighting, Ray couldn’t get the image out of his head. And as much as he didn’t want to see Michael hurt, confidence was pouring from the redhead's stance, and Ray’s fingers tightened on the edge of his chair, secretly praying that the two Aztecas would pick a fight just so Ray could finally see Michael in action.

The voices were muffled, but they still came through the mic, and the larger of the two men approached Michael with hands balled into fists. “This your car, man?”

“Sure as fuck ain’t yours, if those weak-ass Nikes are anything to go by.”

That was all it took, and the bigger of the Aztecas lunged for him, right arm raised for a strike, but Michael avoided it easily, stepping out with his right foot and pivoting on his left, delivering a hook that cracked into the man’s jaw, dropping him like a stone against the pavement.

The second Azteca surged forward with a yell Ray could hear through the headset, kicking out clumsily in typical street-fighter style, and Michael blocked it with a sidestep. He ducked under the punch that followed and moved back, pivoting again and slamming his right fist into the corner of the attacker's mouth, sending him stumbling until he crashed against the wall of the building and fell limp against the ground.

If Ray had blinked, he would have missed it. It had lasted all of six seconds, and now Michael stood there beside two knocked out Aztecas, rubbing his knuckles with a hiss of pain.

“Morons,” he mumbled, and Ray let out a swift breath of relief, unable to keep the smile from his face as he ran his shaking fingers through his hair. It was _incredible. Michael_ was incredible. God, he wanted to watch it again and again, analyze it and put it on a feedback loop until he'd be able to see a new performance.

“Well done,” Jack said into the headset, and Ray could see his beard twitching with restrained humor.

“You good then, Michael?” Geoff asked, a hint of worry still evident in his voice, muffled slightly by the sound of shifting gears.

“Yeah,” Michael mumbled, and Ray watched as he opened the door to the Felon and clambered inside. “Fucking street fighters… no _finesse,_ Geoff!”

Geoff only laughed. “You should watch out Michael, they might start learning from you.”

“I’m here,” Gavin cut in. “Is the garage supposed to be open?”

“Yes,” Geoff replied, “Just close it when you leave, it locks automatically. If you had paid attention during the briefings earlier this week, you’d know that. I’m just a few streets behind you, so don’t freak out and shoot me.”

“Geoff that happened like, _once_.”

“Any fractures, Michael?” Jack interrupted, eyes shifting from one screen to the other.

“Not this time,” Michael’s voice came, still sounding slightly winded as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Two really good knockouts though, it was picture perfect. Did you get it on tape?”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, mirth glistening his words, “You can add it to your spank bank when you get back. Thought Ray was going to have a panic attack watching you, though.”

A heartbeat of silence, then, “Ray was watching? He have a headset?”

“Yeah.”

Ray couldn’t be certain, and he’d never admit it out loud, but he swore he could _hear_ Michael’s smile through the headset. Before anyone could comment further though, before Ray could figure out exactly _why_ the thought made his heart lodge into his throat, Jack’s eyes shifted back to the middle screen and narrowed.

“Heads up, Ryan. P34 is coming up on your cross-street, from the left, and he’s a stickler for imports. Can spot them a mile away. If you can’t make a U-turn before the stoplight, there’s a parking garage up on the right you can cut through.”

“I have the grenades--”

“ _No,_ Ryan.”

“Fine.”

Ray watched as Ryan’s dot veered suddenly to the right, slowing down to a crawl. Several moments later, a blinking red dot sped by the street above it, oblivious to the very illegal gem hiding out behind the concrete support beams.

“You’re clear.”

The car moved out again, and Ray grinned at Jack. “Wow, man. That’s impressive. Where would they be without you?”

Jack considered his question, before covering his mic and answering, “Jail, most likely. And they’re pretty, too, so it’d be bad for them.”

Ray muffled a laugh behind his hand, and heard the telltale signs of two garage doors closing, almost in sync. He looked at the middle map, and two dots were leaving a building together, with a third dot closing in just a few miles away.

“Aw, guys, did your cars have satellite radio? This has a Backstreet Boys channel programmed already.”

Ray could hear Michael fiddling with the knobs in the car, and couldn’t help himself when he muttered, “What, no NSYNC?”

Apparently, Michael could hear him through Jack’s mic, because a soft laughter filled the headset, and suddenly Michael was singing, _“It’s tearin’ up my heart when I’m with you, but when we are apart, I feel it tooooo…”_

And god help him, but Ray couldn’t deny himself from associating himself with this any longer, and he was sure his teeth were going to crack from grinning as he responded, _“But no matter what I do I feel the pain--”_

And to his shock, four additional people joined him to sing, _“WITH OR WITHOUT YOU!!”_

 _“Bom, bom da bom,”_ Jack finalized, and Geoff’s hysterical laughter filled the channel, drowning out everyone else. Ray sat grinning in his seat, hardly daring to believe he’d just interacted with Michael and his crew during a heist, and managed to not fuck it up entirely. In fact, from the way Jack smiled appreciatively at him, and Geoff still struggled to breathe, he might have even made a good impression.

Another garage door slammed, and Ray didn’t even notice that Ryan had joined Geoff and Gavin. Their colored dots stood together near the inky black that symbolized water on the monitor, and Geoff finally managed to catch his breath long enough to wheeze out a sentence.

“Alright. _Damn_. Michael, stop playing kidzbop and get your ass over here. We’ve got a ride back to steal, and a sweet $250,000 waiting to transfer from Lester if he doesn't find any damage. All in all, well done boys.”

  


 

///

  


 

Ray tried not to feel like a wife holding up a welcome home sign. He really did _try._ But when the four of them walked in, laughter ringing through the room and friendly banter completely corrupting the tense apprehension that had filled the room only an hour ago, Ray was smiling like an idiot regardless. It was the same feeling he’d struggled with when he was in line to meet Nathan Fillion at Comic Con four years ago, and the “I’m going to see my hero!” irony wasn’t lost on him.

Jackets were being discarded, vests withdrawn and magazines ejected. Congratulations were being tossed around effortlessly, and Geoff was over the moon about calling a woman named Griffon and telling her to book that flight to Greece once Jack announced that the money had finally been wired.

Ray hardly even remembered to feel neglected before Michael finally looked his way, as if he only recently realized he was in the room. His approach was confident, cocky, and Ray knew he was still riding the high from the heist, still hung up on adrenaline. It made his nerves short-circuit, and Ray found himself blubbering out words before Michael even had a chance to speak.

“You’re hurt?” He asked, nodding towards the blood that streaked Michael’s hand wrap.

Michael held it out, considering. “Oh, no. Knocked a couple of the second guy’s teeth out. Gory residue, you know. Did you enjoy the show?”

Michael was _smirking,_ in that horrible way people tend to do when they have the upperhand, when they know a bit more than the other party would like them to. Ray could either avoid it, shift uncomfortably until he found a sarcastic change of topic, some familiar territory... or he could climb the next rung on the ladder, take another step up like he wasn’t already too high off the ground anyway, and the only exit strategy for that poor decision would be to come crashing down. He braced himself and let his personality take over, consequences be damned.

“Yeah. Nearly came in my pants, actually.“

“Only nearly? I’ll have to try harder.”

And oh God, was Ray teetering. On one hand, homoerotic jokes were a constant in machismo friendships, and Ray could out-gay any of his friends on a good or bad day, but on the other hand… well, he couldn’t necessarily ignore the curious twitch of his dick when Michael had taken that first swing. Which, of course, Ray was going to constitute to _violence_ , and nothing else, if he really had to delve deep enough to examine it.

Michael didn’t wait for a response. “Hey, if you’re cool with hanging out here for a bit, I need to put all my gear away. We're having a party later at Gavin's to commemorate being fucking badass.”

“But before that?”

Michael grinned at him. “We’re going shopping. You’re going to be living with me until you can start pulling jobs and afford your own place, and honestly, you’re pretty pathetic with the whole “borrowing clothes and mouthwash” thing you’ve got going on.”

“Dick.”

Michael pulled a water bottle from the cooler and settled Ray with a gaze that was absolutely serene. “Call me all the names you’d like. I just stole an Italian sports car, KO’d two 180 pound guys with one hit each, and I’m getting drunk as shit tonight without a care in the world. Even your jealousy can’t bring me down.”

Ray smiled, grabbing a bottle for himself and twisting sheepishly at the cap. “Am I that obvious?”

Michael downed his water effortlessly, chucking the empty bottle in the trash bin next to Geoff’s desk before fixing Ray with a pointed stare, the corners of his mouth turning up in a suggestive smile. “Ray, I haven’t seen anyone want something as much as you in the crew. You’re practically drooling again. Now chill here for a bit, I’ll be back.”

Michael turned away, presumably to check his gear back in, and Ray slumped back against the couch, trying (and failing) to ignore how much _promise_ had been weaved into this day. Michael was right. He wanted what was right in front of him more than he’d ever wanted anything, and as far as drowning in expectations went, this wasn’t the worst way to go.


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless filler chapter. It had to be done.
> 
> Again, apologies for the delay, but I was caught up with a big bang that I've finally unshackled myself from. I'm not taking on any other projects so I can fully focus my efforts on this, because I hate that it takes me two months to pump out a 10K chapter. Violence will increase from here on out, so if you're squeamish or easily offended, I suggest finding a new fandom. 
> 
> Thanks for the love <3

Michael was perpetual motion. He moved like the world around him was a story written by his own hand, his own destiny planned and set in stone, and it gave him the certainty that every nuance of his future was so carefully constructed that he had nothing to fear from life. He approached the streets as if he were casually playing his way through a video game, infinite lives at his disposal and the confident knowledge that he controlled his own ending, and all the aspects that came into play alongside it.

Ray, on the other hand, was considering a surgical procedure to put another set of eyes on his back to avoid the nearly constant habit of looking over his shoulder. He didn’t venture downtown often, preferring to stick towards the outskirts of town that were devoid of skyscrapers and big money and big crimes. Michael had assured him he was safer in the heart of the city than he would be with the “methed-up hicks” out in the country, but his promised seemed dim when not ten minutes later a car had whizzed past them on the street, bullets zippering up the hood of a police car that chased after them recklessly, ignoring the frightened citizens on the sidewalks. 

Michael laughed at him when he plastered himself against the nearest support pillar, out of sight, and Ray tried to shake his own zealous fear for appearances sake. He couldn’t afford it anymore. He needed to acclimate himself to this kind of environment, to barely blink at the sound of gunshots and get accustomed to the finer things in life. But as much as he tried to will any lingering doubts from his mind, they still wavered in the base of his skull when Michael pushed the door open for a clothing store that Ray wouldn’t even have bothered window shopping in two months ago. 

“Come on man, really?” He whined immediately, because he already knew that there wasn’t a single piece of clothing here that didn’t cost more than fifty fucking dollars. The front racks were filled with carefully organized slacks and button downs in shocking colors, nothing but mockingly hipster business casual to prey on the unconvinced eyes of skeptical shoppers. 

Michael shot him a dismissive look.“If you thought I’d be caught dead in Binco’s, you’ve got a lot to learn.” He motioned past the disinterested cashier who was popping her gum, deep in the throes of a gossip magazine, “Check in the back towards the corner, that’s where they keep the off-season selection of crap. No offence, but I don’t think all the suit jackets in the world could convince me that you’d pull off business chiche.”

“Alright, because apparently buying me new clothes like you’re my foster parent isn’t demeaning enough, now you have to be an asshole about my lack of class. That’s fine,” Ray muttered, sidestepping through racks to get to the denim he could spot in the corner.

Michael only chuckled, running his hands carelessly along a line of hats, spinning them in their designated spots. “Once you start doing jobs, you can pay me back. Don’t be bitchy.”

Ray found himself in front of a discounted display of last seasons wares, and thankfully, he seemed to have hit the mark. He started rifling through them, hearing Michael meandering around the store several yards away. 

“So, what kind of jobs are we talking about?” He called out lightly, “I assume they’re of questionable legality?”

“Hey, you guys start talking shop, and I’m gonna have to kick you out, ya hear?” The girl at the counter interrupted, and Michael looked away from Ray to try and hide his grin of amusement. 

“Yes ma’am!” He answered enthusiastically, and Ray set to work on grabbing random articles of clothing that fell within his size bracket. He had his arms full of basic cotton t-shirts and a few pairs of jeans before a thin, purple jacket caught his eye. He paused for a long moment, and the sudden decrease in activity brought Michael to his side, looking over his shoulder at the half-priced zip-up. 

“You uh, having a moment?” Michael teased, and Ray nudged him hard against his shoulder. “Aw, fuck man, my stitches!”

“You deserved it,” Ray countered, picking up the jacket and layering it across his pile. “It reminds me of my Twitch jacket, actually. I left it at my apartment, and it’s probably long looted by now.”

“You streamed?” Michael asked, and the teasing hint in his voice gave way to something a little more solemn, like he was testing the waters of a territory he wasn’t allowed to know.

“Yeah. Quite a bit. Never made much money from it, but I kind of had a following -- Oh shit, they’ve got Converse here.”

He ducked under the display table to start sorting through the boxes until he could find his size. He could feel Michael still hovering beside him, and expected a joke about how he’d never agreed to buy Ray new sneakers. Instead, Michael shifted the conversation back onto the original topic.

“What was your Twitch name?”

Ray grabbed a pair of black leather canvas and hauled himself back up, shifting the small pile of clothes on his arm to better encompass the new addition. He met Michael’s eyes, curiosity pulling at him, and answered, “Brownman, why?”

Michael shrugged, the leather of his jacket catching the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. “Good code-name, you know? Already established.”

Ray tossed a beanie towards Michael, who caught it effortlessly, and bent down to grab a final shirt from the discounted mess -- plain black. “You fucking liar, I thought you said you didn’t have aliases?”

“An alias and a code name are two very distinct things, Ray,” Michael chastised, and Ray had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. 

“Oh yeah, so then what’s yours? Your code name?”

A short silence passed until Ray looked back, wondering if he had pushed too far again. But Michael was smirking, that distinct smile that curled the edges of his mouth when he could tell Ray was way more invested than he let on. 

“Mogar.”

“Mogar? The fuck does Mogar mean? Sounds like the frontman to a hair metal band.”

Michael only shrugged, unperturbed by Ray’s attitude, and turned to leave towards the counter, twirling Ray’s beanie on his finger. 

“Wait, you can’t just bail after that!” Ray admonished, hurrying to catch up. “Tell me what it means!”

“It’s my warrior name, what more is there to know?” Michael responded, but Ray could already see the glint of humor in his restrained expression, and he dumped his items onto the counter without a sideways glance towards the cashier. 

“Alright dickhole, I’ll just get it out of you later when you’re drunk.”  

Michael raised his eyebrows at him while the bored cashier began scanning. “Drunk? Oh, Ray, you haven’t been to one of Gavin’s parties, have you?”

“Obviously not, I just got here.”

“Well, I should probably tell you in advance that alcohol will not be the only order of the evening,” Michael replied, and Ray was just opening his mouth to ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, but--

“Is that it?” The cashier interrupted, throwing the clothes into a study paper bag with ‘SUB URBAN’ plastered across it in block letters, “Because my high is wearing down and I can’t leave the counter until you guys are out.”

“Classy,” Ray muttered, torn between irritation at her rudeness and admiration of her ability to give less shits than he did about social stigma. 

Ray grimaced when she turned the screen, revealing a total that was bordering dangerously close to four digits, but Michael seemed entirely unfazed and pulled a blank black card out of his wallet to hand her. She took it, and her expression changed from dreary to uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, seemed to take on an air of professionalism that was far too late to adopt, and a nervous tension belied her eagerness to finish the transaction. She even thanked Michael as he placed the card back in his wallet and motioned for Ray to grab the bag. 

Ray waited (very impatiently) until they were outside, then made an immediate swipe for Michael’s wallet. “Dude, let me see that fucking card. Did you see that girl’s face? She was scared shitless!”

Michael laughed, dodging away from him easily, but he pulled out his wallet again and handed Ray the thick, heavy card, so unlike Ray’s chipped and weathered Visa. Ray snatched it eagerly, turning it between his fingers. It was a plain, matte black, and had no printed numbers, no expiration date, nothing but a thin, camouflaged magnetic strip across the back and  _ Jones  _ etched across the bottom righthand corner in silver, impressive and mysterious. 

“ _ Jones, _ ” Ray murmured, realizing that he inadvertently stumbled across Michael’s surname. “The hell is this?” 

“Perks!” Michael smiled at him, plucking the card from his fingertips and shoving it back into his wallet. “Crime pays, buddy.”

“No shit,” Ray replied, falling into step next to Michael as they made their way back to his car. “Is that like, the criminal equivalent of The Black Card? ...Do you even have, you know, a bank account? Do you just walk into the bank with armfuls of stolen cash and be like, “oh hey, I’m here to make a deposit”?”

Michael snickered, “Well, I don’t keep my money in my fucking toilet, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Fuck you,  _ Jones! _ ”

“Ray, please, at least buy me dinner first.”

 

///

 

Ray was still reeling by the time he stepped into Michael’s penthouse. 

“An  _ Adder… _ ”

For the first time, Ray had been inside Michael’s personal garage. Initially, Michael had parked his Vacca outside behind the building like he had done before, but when Ray had finally dared to ask if Michael had other cars at his disposal, Michael had let out a huff of laughter and veered them into the garage instead. 

Ray had stood there a long time, simply staring. 

In addition to his Vacca, Michael boasted a Roosevelt, a fully armored black Karuma (which Ray had to sit down for, because,  _ shit...),  _ two dirtbikes, three streetbikes, a Bifta (“For exploring and camping and shit, Ray, come on,” which Ray  _ hardly  _ believed), and parked directly in front, shining and sleek and goddamn  _ beautiful,  _ was a chrome Adder, the most expensive car Ray had ever seen. The most expensive car that Ray even knew  _ existed _ .

“Oh, shut up,” Michael whined, but the smile hadn’t faded from his face and Ray  _ knew  _ that Michael was a show off. Everything that he had seen -- the bravado, the fight-mongering, the demolition of the mayor’s estate and the garage that was easily worth three times the amount of Michael’s million-dollar penthouse -- it all just proved that, yeah, Michael enjoyed the display. 

“You’ve  _ got  _ to take me out in it.” The words were out of Ray’s mouth before he even considered feeling ashamed for it. But hell, he’d grown up on handmedowns, he’d lived poor for the past five years, and luxury was staring him right in the fucking face. Hell yeah he wanted a spin, pride be damned. 

Michael hummed, like he was giving it consideration, but Ray knew full well he wouldn’t be able to resist. Secrets were to be hidden, closed off and inaccessible, but cars -- cars were meant to be bragged about. To be driven around and envied by the flock of standard yokels. “I suppose you’ve earned it. We’ll take it to Gav’s tonight. You want to shower or something, before we leave?”

Ray perked up. “You mean, like a shower here? Not a fucking faucet jutting from the wall? You bet your sweet ass I do.”

Michael looked at him, bemused, and pulled off his jacket. “Ray, keep it PG, damn.” He moved to pull off his shirt, and Ray had the suddenly alarming urge to look away, like he was about to see something he shouldn’t be. Michael appeared not to notice when Ray stiffened, and carried on. “I should probably clean my stitches anyway, while you do that. I’ve been moving too much and I’ve ripped them a bit.”

Instead of averting his gaze, Ray watched as Michael pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the couch, turning as best he could to examine the angry line of stitches just underneath his shoulder. Ray’s mind jumped to Jack, whose first instinct had been to examine the wound, assess the damage, to take care of any injuries despite how much Michael had worried him. He thought of Gavin, delicately wrapping Michael’s hands before the heist. How it hadn’t been needed, but Michael still seemed appreciative, smiling, knowing that he was taken care of. That even through Michael's liabilities, people saw  _ consequences  _ instead of faults. Ray loathed the twinge of jealousy that sat hard in his stomach.

“I can help. You know, if you need.”

Michael looked up, brow furrowed like he hadn’t been expecting it and he was caught off-guard. “You...do you know what to do?”

“No. But I feel like I should learn, just in case. You can guide me through it,” he replied, surprising himself with how resolute he sounded. 

Michael also seemed a little upended by Ray’s tone, his cautious determination, but after a moment he nodded. “Yeah, sure. There’s a basic first aid kit under the sink. It’ll be the small one. Don’t touch the backpacks, or anything inside the plastic tub. 

Ray hurried to do as he was told, feeling slightly demeaned that Michael didn’t think he’d be able to find a simple first aid kit, but when he opened the cabinets under the sink he was quick to realize why he was given such implicit instructions. 

Two basic medical kits were near the front, the kind that you’d find in the suburban household, but to the side of that several small backpacks were also stuffed full of various medical supplies, probably (Ray realized with a jolt) in the case of an emergency getaway. And behind that, taking up the majority of the space underneath the sink, was a large bin. Through the clear plastic, Ray caught sight of much more than cloth and antiseptic. A surgical field kit was pressed against the front, the words ‘military grade’ stamped across it, and next to that were stacked packages of QuikClot combat gauze. Other than that, there were only a few things Ray could see clearly, but he caught site of heating blankets, bandages, ointments, and far too many things that were labelled ‘government issue.’

He filed the information away and returned to Michael’s side, unlatching the kit. Michael was sitting on the coffee table, picking idly at his stitches and watching the blood gush around. 

“Dude,” Ray made a face, and Michael looked up. 

“What? Come on, I’m bored.”

“I was gone for like, thirty seconds. Also you have a huge ass TV you can watch. Seriously, even the Justice League would be jealous.”

Michael shrugged but accepted the scolding, turning towards Ray and adjusting slightly so he could remove his Springfield and place it next to him on the table. 

Ray started unpacking the kit, eyes hovering over the pistol, realizing that he never saw Michael without it. “Do you sleep with that next to you?”

“Why, planning on ambushing me in my sleep, Narvaez?” Michael responded quickly, always ready to return the quip, but Ray wondered if it had been the wrong question to ask. If he’d been planning on getting the jump on Michael, the first thing he’d do would be to find out when Michael was usually unarmed. 

He scoffed, trying to lighten the mood in case Michael had taken him a little deeper than face value. “Mm, probably in the shower. I’d sneak in with a Scream mask and cut you to ribbons.”

“That’d take a long fucking time, man. A lot of muscle on here,” Michael smirked, finally meeting Ray’s eyes and gesturing towards his frame, which was, yeah, fairly athletic. Came with the territory, Ray supposed. 

“Don’t criticize my ideas, you’re the criminal mastermind here,” Ray retorted, “Everything I know I’ve learned from movies, and shitty movies at that.”

“Shut up, Ray,” Michael grinned around what was quickly becoming a common phrase. He moved to take out a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of gauze, switching into instructor mode. “Alright. Now, cleaning these doesn’t take too much effort, normally, just soap and water, but--”

“--But you’ve been wiggling them around like a fucking psycho--”

“--But they’re fucking  _ itchy, Ray _ , so the wound needs to be cleaned a bit. Just diddly-dab that shit on there, clean up the blood a bit. And wrap it up when you’re done, or I’ll start messing with them again.”

Ray shook his head, bemused, but did as Michael instructed, splashing a small amount of the bottle’s contents onto a square of cotton and moving to press it against the fresh tears Michael had opened in his forearm. He realized then, wiping the blood gingerly from Michael’s skin, that this was the closest they had been since Michael was grinding the barrel of his Springfield against Ray’s skull in the bathroom a month ago. It nearly floored him, the change in atmosphere, the change in familiarity, and how Michael’s presence had gone from infuriating to stabilizing. 

He tried to avoid catching the cotton against the remaining stitches. He tried to agitate the wound as little as possible to avoid more blood. And he definitely tried fucking  _ hard  _ to ignore the littering of freckles that adorned the tops of Michael’s shoulders, dusting down the curve of his back until they faded into nothing but an expanse of skin. He caught glimpses of scars, some shallow, nearly undetectable against Michael’s light complexion, but others were deep and angry, still red in the middle and determined to stand out, to be remembered. 

His arms had seen the same level of abuse, if not more, and scarred skin ran up and down his forearms and biceps, weaving in between freckles like they had been fused at birth. Ray swallowed down all of his questions, knowing there was a story for each of those marks, and likely only a few of them would be something that Michael would be happy to recall. He pointedly refused to even glance at Michael’s chest, or that dramatic V that ran from hipbones to--

“I’m not sure how Geoff is going to feel with you holding up here tonight,” Michael stated suddenly, inadvertently yanking Ray’s gaze back to where he was just finishing cleaning the wound. He put the blood-stained cotton down, startled by both his veering attention span and Michael’s declaration. 

“Why not?”

“Well, I’ll probably be indisposed, and he won’t want you alone with me if I’m not ready to take you down.”

Ray swallowed thickly, unrolling the gauze. “I won’t--”

“Yeah, save it,” Michael snapped, but it lacked any tangible aggression. “Preaching to the choir, man. I’ll probably end up crashing at Gavin’s anyway, because I’m not driving my baby drunk and there’s no fucking way I’m taking a goddamn taxi. So, you know. Sleepover I guess.”

Ray nodded, finally beginning to think about the evening he was supposed to be attending. He wasn’t a fan of parties. Generally, he wasn’t a fan of  _ people _ , at least ones he didn’t know, and being introduced during a celebratory drunk-fest was the complete opposite of how he preferred to make friends. He couldn’t refute though, considering his probationary house-arrest, and a small part of him was hoping he’d be resigned to a corner, allowed to watch the crew lose their inhibitions without having to interact. 

He started wrapping the gauze around Michael’s busted stitches, feeling the muscles tense in the redhead’s arm, but it likely wasn’t from pain, and Ray felt too self-conscious, too plain. 

“I’m not very much fun at parties,” he admitted, the brush of his fingers against Michael’s skin careful and calculated, just enough to be deemed necessary. Michael waited the few seconds until Ray had finished, and stood, carefully flexing his arm to test the pull of the gauze. 

“That’s fine, I’m enough fun for everybody,” he reasoned, clapping Ray on the back while Ray internally pleaded for him to put his shirt back on. “Opposites attract anyway, right? The best friendships I have are with people I swore I'd sooner beat to death than spend my free time with.”

He moved to grab his shirt, apparently unaware of the effect of his words. Ray stood still, replaying it in his head, wondering whether declarations came easily to Michael, or if had just been a choice of words, simple and entirely unremarkable. 

Because Ray  _ knew  _ he saw the beginnings of a friendship between them. A great one, even. But currently, he couldn’t tell if he was thinking too far ahead, or if Michael was already leaving him in the dust. Maybe forming relationships came easily to him. Michael’s world revolved around contacts, it seemed easy to reason that he’d be on the good side of as many people as possible. 

Easy to reason, sure, but likely inaccurate. He thought back to Michael’s tiffs with Ryan, how not even  _ crew members  _ were safe from Michael’s apparent spells of rage, and of Victor, who had ended up spitting blood onto the concrete when he’d been just a little too cocky about Ray’s trade. 

By the time Michael had slid his shirt back on, Ray was nowhere closer to unraveling Michael’s persona than he’d been before, and he was starting to rethink how he felt about the approaching party. It was a good chance to see Michael, to see the whole crew, in an open setting, see how they interacted with people other than each other, and whether Michael was a people-pleaser or a lit fuse. He started feeling almost grateful for the opportunity. 

“You gonna shower or what, man, I’m leaving here in twenty.”

“Right,” Ray snapped back to reality, “Um, downstairs, or…?”

“Yeah, only one room and bathroom, you can’t miss it. Use whatever you want, but  _ don’t  _ start nosing around through the shit in my bedroom Ray, I mean it.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks--”

“Ray,” Michael said, and it was hard and dangerous, warnings laced into his words like venom. Ray turned to look at him, and the look Michael gave him reminded him of  _ exactly  _ how afraid he should be about crossing him. “I’ll know if you touch something. Just remember that.”

Ray only nodded, unnerved, and disappeared down the staircase.

  
  


///

 

Ray fully expected Michael to steer them towards another penthouse, maybe one of those condos near the beach that were easily priced in the millions and coveted by every resident in Los Santos. Instead, Michael shifted gears and led them through downtown, towards the hills of Vinewood, speeding through red lights when the intersection seemed empty enough. 

Ray, momentarily distracted with running his fingers down the expensive leather of the Adder, spoke up. “Um, Gavin lives with celebrities then?”

Michael seemed confused for a moment, chancing a look at Ray as he passed alongside the golf course. “What? Oh, no, Gavin doesn’t live anywhere. I mean, sometimes he crashes with me, other times with Geoff, or he’ll spend all nighters at the warehouse. Usually he’s with his girlfriend, though. She can put up with his shit for longer periods of time than we can.”

“And she lives here?” Ray asked, staring out the window as Michael turned up the residential district. Each driveway held a car worth over eighty thousand dollars, at least, and cops were posted around every corner, all too willing to protect and serve the affluent neighborhood of the rich and famous while the scum downtown were left to fend for themselves. 

Michael slowed his Adder down to the speed limit, and for the first time Ray noticed that the car finally didn’t look out of place, winding up the streets of glitz and glamor like the road had been paved just for her. 

Michael was mad-dogging an office through the window, but addressed Ray as he spoke, “She does indeed. You’ll recognize her. Just don’t get star-struck, she hates that.”

Ray nodded, already preoccupying himself with making a mental checklist of all the actresses and heiresses that he knew lived in the city. He wanted to know how  _ Gavin,  _ the criminal and hacker, had managed to score an upper class broad, but kept his questions to himself as Michael pulled into a brick driveway, parking off on the side to allow room for more guests. 

They exited the Adder, Ray somewhat nervously, and Michael jerked his head towards the front door, urging to Ray to follow him as their shoes crunched against the gravel. The sun had already set, and the night was clear, allowing a view of the stars that Ray had never been able to see from his apartment. It wasn’t the view he could get from Michael’s place, but he could definitely see the appeal of living here, even if it included having high-class neighbors from hell. 

Michael opened the mosaic-windowed door, ushering Ray inside, and instead of blasting music and shitty lighting, Ray was greeted with bellowing laughter and the faint sounds of a television in the background. The floor was all open plan, but a wall crept around the side of the entryway, offering a secluded foyer for guests to acclimate themselves. Ray could hear conversations past it, friends speaking easily amongst themselves and the sound of bottles being cracked open. 

“What were you expecting, a club?” Michael asked, once again effectively reading Ray’s mind and smiling that infuriating smirk, like he was thrilled with consistently being one step ahead. 

“Little bit, yeah,” Ray admitted, and he knew Michael was trying to make him feel like an ass, but he refused to take the bait. “You seem like that kind of dickhead, you know?”

“Do not,” Michael countered easily, but before Ray could retort, a young woman with long red hair popped her head out of the kitchen. 

“Michael! There you are!”

She grinned, walking quickly forward and throwing herself bodily around Michael. She was tiny, and Michael was able to pick her up easily, spinning her around a bit before plopping her gently back onto the ground, muttering a quick “Hey, babe.” 

She fixed her glasses, smiling widely. “I thought you might have opted out, considering--” She looked over at Ray, who immediately realized who she was. 

“Holy shit, are you Meg Turney?”

She only smiled wider, holding her hand out to his as Ray gave her another quick once over, just to be sure. She looked so different here, in person, than she did on TV. Her smart white blazer had been replaced with a tight-fitting Borderlands shirt, and her usual professional pencil skirt was gone, casual jeans having taken their place. Her socks were different colors, and her face had only minimal make up. She started to speak again, and Ray had to shake himself to listen, too absorbed in the fact that he was standing in Meg Turney’s living room. Meg Turney, star co-anchor on Weazel News. 

“I am,” she said kindly, “Just call me Meg though. You’re Ray, right?”

Ray watched her, feeling a smile hitch itself onto his face. “Yeah. Michael’s plus-one.”

“Gay,” Michael muttered under his breath, and Meg laughed. A full honest laugh that Ray  _ knew  _ was going to be contagious. 

“Well, welcome. Good to meet you, Ray, and good to see you, Michael. Though it’s been too long, I might add--” She shot Michael a sour look, which Michael waved off. “--The Crew is here, along with Jeremy’s bunch, and some stragglers. All people you know,” she added quickly, at Michael’s raised eyebrow. “Beer wherever you can reach, and the bar is stocked. Gavin’s got some goodies, as well.”

Michael nodded, leaning over to kiss the top of her head before she hurried away at the sound of her name being called from the main room. Without a backwards glance at Ray, Michael strode forward, turning the slight corner and disappearing. With a silent curse, Ray followed him. 

Sofas and armchairs littered the floor plan, with many looking like they had been brought in just for the extended company. Ray immediately spotted Geoff in the largest armchair, his fingers wrapped around a glass while a woman with short blonde hair and a nose-ring sat on the arm of his seat, nursing a bloody mary. A large TV was mounted to the wall, and four guys sat together on the couch closest, lost within a very intense game of Mario Kart. 

“Kerry! You fucking blue-shelled me!!”

“Miles, I’m sorry, please--!”

Ray spotted Gavin, an arm wound around a chatting Meg while he drained the remainder of his beer. Jack was seated next to Ryan and a brunette, and they were all laughing quietly at whatever Jack had up on his phone. There were plenty of people Ray didn’t recognize, passing out drinks or caught up in the game on TV, and all of his expectations were immediately thrown out of the window. If Ray were to have friends, if he were to ever willingly go to parties, this is what he’d hoped they’d be like. It only cemented his belief that he should be trying to mingle, and apprehension was clinging tightly against his lungs. 

“Hey, Michael!” Somebody shouted, and Michael raised his hand in greeting, taking the steps two at the time before he plucked a beer out of a pretty blonde woman’s hands. 

“Michael! Get your own!”

“Thanks Barb,” he winked, but the woman only rolled her eyes, leaning forward to take a random bottle off the table to replace her stolen one. Michael high-fived a few people, clasped hands with others in a more affinitive greeting, and it wasn’t until several seconds later that someone noticed Ray, standing uncomfortably at the top of the short stairway. 

“Michael, who’s your friend?” Someone asked, and Ray’s heart did that stupid leap that he  _ really  _ had to start getting under control. 

Before Michael could respond though, Geoff spoke up, addressing everyone in the room. “Everyone, this is Ray Narvaez. He bitched and moaned his way into consideration for Fake AH Crew--”

There was a collective whooping noise, which Geoff took extreme annoyance too. “Shut up! Anyway, he’s on probation, so no company talk, and he’s to have eyes on him at all times.”

The girl on the arm of his chair, Griffon, he presumed, punched him lightly in the arm and leant down to whisper in his ear. There was a smattering of “Hey, Ray,” “What’s up, man,” “Nice job, Ray,” and “Have a seat!” that Ray was unable to ignore, so he nodded his thanks and sat down on the furthest couch, pressed against the wall where no one would bother him. 

Conversation picked back up, and Ray relaxed now that he wasn’t the center of attention. He took a moment to get a reading on everyone, figuring out which of them looked approachable and which to steer clear of. It was difficult, and everyone was wearing a smile like they all weren’t associated with underground criminal activity and the police outside wouldn’t be able to shoot them on site. It unnerved him how... _ normal  _ they seemed.

He was safe on his couch of seclusion, unable to be overheard but still seemingly involved with the room. He knew he was being distant, and Michael surprised him by sitting down next to him, passing over an open bottle that Ray eyed nervously. 

“Did you drug this?”

“No!” Michael replied, feigning hurt, but his expression softened into mischief immediately. “Why, do you want me to?”

Ray smiled but gave no response, bringing the bottle to his lips. He had decided earlier that being at least slightly intoxicated would help him get through this night, and he had made it a habit to live by the motto of “if someone else is paying, I’m partaking.” 

“Am I still good to ask questions?”

Michael swallowed his drink, eyeing Ray carefully for a moment before letting his own curiosities go. “Sure, shoot.”

“Alright, who are all these people?” He asked, gesturing towards the throng currently occupying the living room. The Mario Kart game ended, and the man named Kerry threw himself back onto the floor in the agony of defeat. The room erupted into laughter. “This isn’t your Crew, right?”

“No, you know the Crew already,” Michael responded. He bit his lip, as if trying to figure out how to answer without giving away any personal information. “They’re...associates of sorts. Jeremy down there, with the red controller, he’s got his own gang. Geoff’s protege, in a way. His guys are here. Others are financial backers, people that have helped us get to where we are. One of our employers is around, can’t tell you which. And see those ladies?” He gestured towards the woman he called Barb, another girl with chopped blonde hair, and the brunette sitting next to Jack and Ryan. “--Mercenaries. They work together, almost like a crew, but they only do hits.”

Ray paused, considering, before-- “And Meg, is she--?”

“Nope, just a news anchor. She got roped into all of this when she met Gavin. It’s a good fucking story though, I hope I can tell you one day. 

“When you trust me, you mean?” 

“Well, when everybody else does.”

Ray paused for a moment, letting that notion sink in, letting the thought of that dream becoming a reality burrow into his mind until it was  _ almost  _ believable. Getting orders from Geoff through a headset, Jack directing him onto the nearest off ramp while Michael leans out the passenger side with a grenade launcher, blowing up cop cars with a chaotic laughter that buries itself deep into Ray’s bones--

He cut that thought off. Too soon. “Hey, you don’t have to dote on me, go hang out with your friends.”

Michael gave him a patronizing expression, like he didn’t quite believe him, and Ray had a horrifying moment where he was  _ certain  _ that Michael could read minds. 

“Fine, but I’m coming back for you,” he warned, then motioned to the beer in Ray’s hand. “Also, switch that out for water when you’re done.”

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me.”

And Michael was gone, moving to settle down beside Griffon and point towards the feather gem necklace that graced her throat, clearing asking where she had gotten it. Griffon placed her hand across it and touched Geoff’s arm gently, saying something Ray was too far away to hear and Michael smirked. Geoff shot him a warning glare.

Ray smiled, turning away to watch the room as he tried to drain his beer, only slightly trepidated as to why Michael wanted him hydrated. Part of him knew he should be concerned, but lingering here, in a house of a woman he used to stare at all day on TV, surrounded by people who were all involved in an illegal but lucrative business, well, it made sense that a lot of his inhibitions were wearing off. He was finding familiar ground in the novelty of a foreign environment, and what would normally have him feeling out of place was enveloping him with a form of comfort and safety. 

Several people came up to talk to him in the hour that passed, asking what he had used to do for a living, how he had met Michael. Ray didn’t skimp the details, and was pleased to find that he had strangers genuinely laughing at his serendipitous run-in with Michael; a man named Burnie found it especially amusing, grinning his way through Ray’s story with a vague sort of contentment in his eyes, like he had more than enough anecdotes of Michael that could easily rival Ray’s. 

Ray fetched himself a water bottle from the kitchen just as the lights in the room faded lower, courtesy of a dimmer switch. Night was heavily upon them now, though most of them were drunk and watching another thrilling match of Mario Party, voices louder than need be and polite proximity fading until they were draped across each other’s shoulders. Instead of the soft, white light that had engulfed the room before, colors stretched across the ceiling, bouts of blues and purples that shifted into greens and reds. 

Ray was so caught up in watching the change that he didn’t hear Gavin approach. “Forgive Meg, she has a flair for aesthetic.”

“Gavin, hey,” Ray startled, nearly spilling his water. “No, it’s fine. It’s great. Her house is awesome.”

“I don’t like flattery,” Gavin waved him off, but there was a teasing tone to it, like Gavin hadn’t meant it to be dismissive. “What I do like, however, is making questionable decisions with people I’ve just met. You down for that?”

“That could mean anything, Gavin--”

“Of course he’s down for it,” Michael interrupted, bumping Ray’s shoulder as he slid in between them. “What’cha got, Gavvy?”

“Aliens, or pokeballs?”

Michael made a face. “Those Pokeballs fucked me up last time, man. Bad batch. I thought the carpet was worms and I couldn’t eat for like, days. We’ll go aliens.”   

“What exactly--” Ray started, but froze when Gavin pulled a small baggie out of his pocket. Inside were at least a dozen small, chalky tablets, colors slightly subdued with the imprint of an alien or a pokeball pressed into them. “Whoa, alright, hold the phone.”

Gavin paused in fishing out one of the pills, looking at him expectantly. Ray wasn’t sure what his hold up was, because as far predictability went, his life was currently off the fucking radar. Guns, he could deal with. Murder? Yeah, that would take a bit to swallow, but depending on the associated crimes of the victim, he’d probably learn to stomach it. But drugs? He had smoked some herb now and then, but that was tame. Standard. Hardcore drugs seemed like a new low he wasn’t ready to hit. 

“Doesn’t that like, fuck with getting your jobs done?” He asked tentatively, and he knew it sounded like six layers of apprehensive bullshit the moment it left his mouth. 

Michael shrugged. “It’s only recreational. All good things are short-lived, man.”

Ray was still unsure, and it must have shown in the stern lines on his face because Michael suddenly had a hand on his shoulder, turning Ray to look at him. He seemed jarringly serious. “Ray, you killed a guy in your own apartment, and you’re currently up for initiation into one of the most powerful gangs in Los Santos. I think you can go ahead and toss your moral high ground out the fucking window.”

Something broke in him; the superficial need to play by the rules, his personal vendetta of proving that “nice guys finish last” wasn’t always the case, his ongoing battle with how to behave, when to fight back, and how many punches he could take -- it all broke. 

“You’ll do it with me?” He asked, entirely unnecessary, because Michael was already rolling a pill between his fingers, smiling softly. 

“Man, I’ll do it without you.” 

Ray reached out to take the pill Gavin was offering him, worried that if would fall apart in his fingers. It was sturdy, if not slightly crumbly, and he stared closely at narrow face of the alien imprinted into the drug. “Is this just Ecstasy then?”

“Pure MDMA, I’ve already tested them,” Gavin replied, shaking the bag invitingly at Meg, who grinned at him from across the room.

“See, Gavin, you  _ say  _ that,” Michael chided, “But the last batch was laced with cocaine and you were giving them out like it was fucking trick or treat--”

“It’s not my bloody fault!” Gavin replied indignantly, sputtering at Michael. “Jaime had  _ never  _ sold me a bad bit before that--”

“Whatever Gavin, just shut up and take your fucking pill. If they’re altered, just know that my foot is going to end up in your ass. ...These aren’t quads, right?”

Gavin shook his head, muttered “Doubles,” and Michael immediately swallowed his without any further argument. Gavin winced slightly as he watched the pill go down, and held his tentatively between his fingers. Ray had never seen him uncomfortable before, and was opening his mouth to ask Gavin why he was hesitating, but Michael cut him off with a sigh of impatience. 

“C’mon Gav, you do this every time. Just pretend it’s a dick and swallow.”

“Sod off, Michael,” Gavin snapped.

“He has an issue taking pills,” Michael explained quietly to Ray. “It’s fucking pathetic when he gets hurt, we have to stick an IV in him and med him up that way.”

Gavin glared at Michael, but snatched Ray’s bottle out of his hands, gulping it down frantically to try and trick his body into swallowing the pill along with the water.

“Oh gross, cooties,” Ray lamented dramatically, and Michael rolled his eyes. 

“It’s like a running a daycare,” he sighed, then paused. “Actually, this is probably how I would run a daycare, honestly. Just dope up the fucking kids until they pass out and collect the money at the end of the day. Easy breezy. Hey, anyone want to go into business with me?”

“This won’t make me like, super horny, will it?” Ray cut in cautiously, staring at the pill in his palm while Gavin handed him back his water. 

“Nah,” Gavin shook his head. “You’ll probably just get cuddly and want to pet stuff.”

Ray made a face. “Alright. Worse things have happened I suppose,” he reasoned, and swallowed his pill with a quick swig of water. There was a chalky, bitter aftertaste on his tongue, and he tried to drown it out as best as he could. “Ugh, gross.” He paused, completely unsure of what happened next. “What, uh...what do we do now?”

Gavin shrugged. “Cards Against Humanity? There’s a spot on the floor in the back where we can sit that should have enough light.”

Michael acquiesced and offered to go get the game, while Gavin tossed the remainder of the bag towards Meg, who caught it and immediately began fishing pills out for a few outstretched hands. Gavin led Ray towards the back of the room, kicking a throw pillow out of the way and tossing himself ungraciously onto the floor. Ray followed gingerly, wondering how long it would be until the pill took effect. He was torn between a fluttering anticipation and mild remorse, and his usual cocky attitude at the unknown was starting to take back burner as he imagined all the ways he could fuck this up. 

He hated not being in control of himself.

Gavin was watching him closely, looking completely relaxed and carefree sprawled across the floor. “Don’t look so worried, love. It’s a happy drug.”

Ray nodded, picking at a stray thread in the carpet. “I know. I’m just… I don’t want to do something stupid, you know? I’ve never done this before.”

Gavin grinned knowingly at him, folding his fingers together as he shifted his weight slightly. “Why? Worried you’ll make a move on him?”

There was only one  _ him  _ that Gavin could mean, and for Ray’s credit, he tried really hard not to balk. He was getting sick of everyone seeming to have a constant insight into the inner workings of his mind, and he needed to start garnering some form of control over his facial expressions and body language before he had no secrets left to guard. 

“Why? Worried you’ll be jealous?” He shot back, but Gavin only grinned at him and shrugged, pulling Ray’s water bottle out of his hands and draining it. 

“Alright,” Michael announced as he returned, kicking Gavin’s foot out of the way so he could set down the large black box of cards next to him. “Kerry and Meg want in, so widen the circle, folks.”

Ray scooted back, making room for the two approaching people. The man named Kerry sat down quickly beside him, like they had known each other for years, and Meg sat between him and Gavin, looking comfortable and eager. Michael took place next to Ray and started shuffling out cards. “Anyone here not take a pill?” He asked, and the group collectively shook their heads. “Alright, cool. We’ll all be idiots together, then.”

It took Ray twenty minutes and four winning hands of Cards before he started to feel the slight pull of  _ something,  _ deep in the recesses of his mind. It began slowly, an inappropriate contentment swimming through his veins until his entire body was tingling slightly with an elevated sense of happiness. His palms were sweaty where he slowly unclenched him, and very quickly he was smiling before anyone had even laid down their cards. The casual conversation around him grew from calming, to comforting, to blissful, and he felt a sort of tranquil satisfaction at his place in life, like there was nowhere he’d rather be

The colors were shifting slowly across the ceiling, as if in slow motion, and he caught himself staring at them, content to watch them move and meld into one another. He could hear Geoff and the man named Joel having a loud discussion on the merits of securing the gold influx that had everyone snickering, but it seemed distant, an easy background noise for his sudden relaxation. The giggling in his small circle increased, and he left himself be pulled back into their reality.

“You can’t just  _ say  _ ‘Harry Potter erotica’ for everything, Turney. You have to have the card,” Kerry was chastising, the smile evident on his face. He seemed so friendly. Ray should talk to him more, they’d probably hit it off well. 

Meg shook her head defiantly, purposefully whipping her hair back and forth like a child, very clearly rolling heavily already. “Nope. It’s the funniest card. I have to say it each time because it goes with  _ everything.  _ ‘How does President Obama relax? Harry Potter erotica’! See! It goes!”

Ray giggled, outright  _ giggled,  _ but the only person who noticed was Michael. The remaining three began a playful argument about the best card in the deck, but Michael took Ray’s chin in his hand and turned his head to face him. He looked directly into Ray’s eyes, studying them, and a satisfied smile grew on his face. 

“Your pupils are dilated. You finally feel it?”

Ray grinned, letting the weight of his head fall against the hand that was half-cradling his cheek. “Yeah. Feels fucking...nice.”

Michael returned his smile, and in the slow flash of blue light he was able to see Michael’s pupils, expanded and black and a sure-fire indication that he was right up there with Ray, slipping a sense of security between them. “Yeah it does,” he mumbled, and paused, lingering a moment before letting his hand fall from Ray’s jaw back to the deck in his hand. 

It was a pointless gesture though, because the other three had abandoned the game. Kerry and Meg were still deep in discussion about whether or not it was only funny because the card itself was hilarious, but Gavin had fallen silent, simply staring at Meg with a doe-eyed wonder and moving the hair back from her cheek. 

“He gets like that,” Michael mumbled to him, gesturing to Gavin. “He won’t admit he’s in love with her when he’s sober, but you can always tell.”

“Why won’t he admit it?” Ray responded, running his fingers across the carpet. Had carpet always felt that good? He wanted to talk. He wanted to talk nonstop and touch the carpet with everything he can. He wanted Gavin to tell Meg how much he loves her, he wants them to be as happy as he felt right then, surrounded by people he swore he cared more about now than he did an hour ago. Michael’s body was a beacon of heat and invitation, and Ray was hanging on every word, obsessed with the way Michael’s mouth moved to form perfectly constructed words. 

“It’s not easy, our line of work. Loving someone means having a liability.”

“What about Geoff?” Ray asked, motioning towards the man he was suddenly more fond of. All of Geoff’s behavior towards Ray suddenly wasn't so bad. It made a lot of sense, after all. Ray wasn’t worried. They'd figure it out. “He has that Griffon lady. Girlfriend?”

“Wife,” Michael affirmed, and Ray could see him running his fingers up and down the zipper on his jacket unconsciously. “But Griffon is different, she doesn’t need protection. She… she has chainsaws. It’s scary as shit at their house, man.”

Ray shifted, feeling too constrained. He needed to move, to talk, to be apart of something. Suddenly, being pressed hidden in the corner was the opposite of what he wanted, and his earlier reasoning of avoiding company seemed ludicrous. “Can we go outside?”

“God, yes,” Michael responded, sitting up instantly, wobbling on his feet then laughing, like the rush of blood to his head was a simple, undefinable joy. Ray followed him, stifling his own laughter at the light-headed feeling, and stepped over the abandoned card game. Gavin met his eyes as he moved, a serene smile pulling at the corners of his mouth when he winked at Ray, who couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. There was no humiliation. Embarrassment was a foreign concept. 

Michael moved across the room easily, stopping only once to tap Ryan on the shoulder and whisper something in his ear. Ryan studied him, flicked his eyes back to Ray, then nodded. Ray was overcome with a strange desire to go speak to him, to mend any cracks in their shattered, if not entirely broken, relationship. He scanned the room, taking in the faces of people he was just learning to know, and he wanted to go sit with them. To learn where they came from, what they were doing, their stories and their lives. 

But Michael grabbed his wrist and moved him towards the back door, away from the crowd and all of those strange, yearning desires. Each step he took felt light and distant, like he was walking just a few inches above the ground, but it was  _ perfect.  _ He wanted to walk like this all the time. He didn’t want to  _ stop  _ walking. 

Somehow, they were outside, and he felt Michael’s hands grab his shoulders gently, centering him. “Hey man, you good?”

He looked up into Michael’s face, the twinge of worry overshadowed by the amusement in Michael’s features. He looked good like this, _happy_ , and Ray couldn’t keep the smile from his face if he tried. The world behind Michael was dark but unimposing, amplified only by the muted outdoor lights that ran beside the walkway and surrounded the pool. It was warm. Beautiful. 

“I’m good,” he replied, and talking felt like a deep, satisfying catharsis. He was going to talk for the rest of the night, to anyone that would listen. Why had he been so withdrawn before? 

“I shouldn’t have let you take that whole double, I forgot you haven’t done this before. It’s probably going to hit you really hard, so just tell me if you start to feel weird, okay?”

Ray laughed at that, a full, honest laugh, and he had to bite his lip to stop long enough to get out his next sentence. “Michael, I feel weird.”

Michael broke, grabbing Ray’s shoulders and burying his face into Ray’s chest as he shook in laughter. Having Michael pressed against him was a shock to his system, an otherworldly feeling that he didn’t want to let go of, something that he wanted to pull inside of him and ease the tension of the tightly drawn strings in his heart. But Michael moved back, and his pupils were  _ so  _ dilated Ray couldn’t tear his eyes away long enough to focus on continuing their conversation. Ray stared into them, overwhelmed with how strange it looked, how ethereal Michael seemed in that moment. But Michael was trying to get him to focus, so he attempted to narrow his attention on words rather than sights. It was a fucking effort. 

“I’m trying to be serious here,” Michael giggled, running his thumbs along Ray’s arms, where he still had an easy grip. “I want to make sure you’re golden.”

“Alright,” Ray smiled, adding another “alright,” just because if felt so good to say it. “I’m okay. It’s fine. Still golden, Ponyboy. Just uh--” he laughed again, for no particular reason. “--What do we do, you know?”

They stayed silent for a moment, and simply stared at each other. Ray’s thoughts were zeroed in on currents, on absolutes, and nothing could drag him away from it. He absolutely wanted Michael to keep touching him, and he was perfectly content to stand there, staring at the man that had given and taken so much from him. Features were prominent, from the freckles across Michael’s face to the haphazard way his hair fell into disarray, looking like it had been cut by his own hands rather than a barber. It seemed ridiculous to believe that a human like Michael could exist. That something so incredible could be standing in front of him, staring back at him like he considered Ray to be worth his time. 

“Saw your fight today,” he said, because the need to talk was weighing so  _ heavy  _ on him that he felt like a dam was about to burst in the back of his throat. “Do they always go down like that, one hit?”

“Nah,” Michael grinned, his eyes shining, and Ray knew there was nothing in the world he’d rather be talking about. “Sometimes it takes me a while to knock professionals out. I still do the underground fights sometimes, just to keep myself in check. It’s just the idiots that go down easy.”

Ray raised his hands to rest them on Michael’s arms, encouraging Michael to keep the steady, determined grip he had on Ray’s shoulders. “You’ve got to let me come watch you, if you go underground again. I need to see that shit.”

Michael grinned, feral and intrigued. “Yeah? You wanna come with? I can’t keep watch on you, so you’ll have to stay nearby while I’m in the ring. Don’t make me hunt you down.”

It should have sent a tremor of worry through Ray, but he was beyond that.  _ They  _ were beyond that. It was teasing now, and he could feel his blood pulsing in all the wrong directions. It didn’t seem like such a bad idea, to kiss Michael, to scope out all the other places where Michael could put his hands. 

“Like I’m fucking going anywhere,” he laughed, because of  _ course  _ he wasn’t, and Michael knew that. He couldn’t explain how Michael had so diligently figured him out, but it was reassuring to know that at least someone was finally taking him at face value. 

He didn’t even feel surprised when Michael leaned forward to rest his forehead against Ray’s, a quiet mumble of “I know,” slipping out, like it had only been half intended. Michael’s skin was fuel for Ray’s fire, and he tightened his grip just slightly, just to garner a reaction, and Michael jerked like he wanted to press them closer, but pulled away instead. 

Ray smiled in response, because he wasn’t craving anything in particular except that comfortable affinity that seemed to encompass them, and contact or no, Michael was still  _ here,  _ and that was all he really wanted right then. He knew Michael was, at the very least descriptive, a ticking time bomb, a weapon that Geoff held concealed under his coat with determined, careful fingers. He recalled Geoff’s questions, wondering why Ray hadn’t felt an inkling of fear in Michael’s presence, and he still didn’t have an answer. His terror had been replaced with reverence, but he wanted to keep that fact close to him for as long as he could. 

“Teach me,” he said suddenly, autopilot taking over and forcing words out of his throat that had only been considered, rather than thought out. “Like, to fight.”

Michael cocked his head, bemused. “You want me to show you how to fight? What, you’re not satisfied with being better than me with a rifle? You gonna try and shit all over my profession now, too?”

Ray shook his head. His face was started to hurt with how much he was smiling. “No, man. I want to stay as fucking far away as possible. But I feel like a Puerto Rican walking down a street run by Mexican gangs isn’t exactly waving around a white flag, you know? I’m bound to get jumped.”

Michael laughed, “Sure, I can teach you, cause you are definitely gonna get got if you’re dicking around in the wrong territory. Try and stay off the streets though, hang back as a sniper, if you can. You’re a fucking beast with that thing, you’ll be fine.”

“You really think I’m good?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Please, you’re the best shot I’ve seen yet, and I’ve been doing this for a decade now.” He paused, bringing a hand up to pick at the zipper on Ray’s hoodie. “I mean, I try not to bullshit about coincidences a lot, but I really think you were meant to do this. A lot of things lined up to get you here, and I think you should take that into consideration.”

Ray restlessness urged him to shift, to run his hands across the leather of Michael’s jacket, moving up just high enough to trail his fingers across the skin on his throat. It was too intimate, but Ray’s intentions were innocent. He just wanted to  _ feel _ , and this would be one of his only chances. He felt  safe now _ ,  _ something he hadn’t been gifted for a very long time, and Michael’s words were hovering around in his drug-induced clarity, offering promises he wanted to claim on a physical level. 

Michael tilted his neck to the side in a gracious invitation that had Ray curling the pads of his fingers against his skin in gratitude. He wondered how far he could push it, if Michael would let him sneak underneath the hem of his shirt, where the skin would be heated and Ray’s intentions would border on indecent. 

But Michael grabbed his wrist, and Ray was taken from the moment by the sound of his teeth grinding against one another. Michael was watching him curiously, focused and alert, with only that barest hint of levity. “Your hands are shaking,” he mused, studying Ray’s fingers. “And you’re grinding your teeth. We need to get you inside and talking, keep you active.”

“Yeah,” Ray breathed, because that sounded  _ awesome.  _ He had so many things he wanted to do, so many things he wanted to ask people, topics he wanted to broach and stories he wanted to hear. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

His skin felt clammy, and his could feel his erratic heartbeat in his ears, the blood pounding the drug through his body until every inch of him was floating. The sudden realization of these adverse effects and Michael’s notice of them sent him into a temporary panic, and he gripped Michael’s jacket, unnerved, worried that he’d made a mistake. 

Michael’s hand on his back was a blossoming of warmth and comfort. “Hey, calm down. It’s all normal -- you’ll have some shakes for a while. It’s normal. It’ll fade.” He placed his forehead back against Ray’s, steadying him, and another wave of calm broke over Ray’s frightened upheaval. “I’ve got you,” he muttered, and Ray took a few minutes to shake off the remains of his panic and let his breathing return to normal. 

“Alright,” he said, his smile taking pedestal placement against his features once again. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

The remainder of the evening was nothing less than chaotic. Ray’s pill kicked in fully about half an hour later, and he quickly became ingrained with everyone in a way that he would never have thought possible sober. Everyone in the room was either high or drunk, and judgement was passed scarcely, or not at all. 

He found himself pressed between the blonde woman, Barbara, and the man named Joel, watching the latest match of Mario Kart on the oversized television. He yelled, “Fourth place Kerry, great job champ! Way to give up on yourself!” to the room, which erupted into laughter and had Joel shaking in restrained humor against his shoulder. He was so connected to everyone, and he felt like he’d known them for years instead of hours. He learned their names, and despite Geoff’s weak protests, he quickly became integral to the party for his wit and smart remarks. Michael was wiping away tears of laughter from his eyes, and even Ryan had his head in his hand to hide his smiles. 

The only hiccup in Ray’s night came four hours later, when he ventured in search for a bathroom and found Gavin pressing Michael up against the wall in the darkness of the hallway, a knee pressed between Michael’s legs and a hand tangled in his hair while he whispered something into Michael’s neck. Michael’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, and when he saw Ray over Gavin’s shoulder he fisted his hand into Gavin’s shirt, but didn't push him away. 

Ray paused, unsure of what to do, what he should say. The drugs in his system were screaming  _ affection  _ at him from every possible angle, and he was far less concerned than he thought he’d be, but there was still something tugging at the base of his skull that felt like the ghost of disappointment. Michael was meeting his eyes without question, and it was disconcerting, as Michael was clearly lost in the beginning throes of arousal, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted. But Gavin pulled back, raising an eyebrow when he saw Ray behind him. 

Gavin grinned, nothing but golden honey smiles and secondhand intentions, but it seemed to break whatever trance Michael was in, and he shook his head to clear it, opening his mouth to speak. Ray turned and retreated then, before Michael could form words, figuring that he could find another bathroom not currently occupied by questions he couldn’t think of an answer to. 

Unexpectedly, he ran directly into Meg back in the main room. She grinned at him once she steadied her beer, and he smiled back, despite himself. The desire to touch her hair, feel if it was as fiery as it looked, was still lingering faintly, but he pushed it down as she nodded her head towards the hallway he had just hastily abandoned. 

“Are they back there?” 

He paused, because there were a lot of things that could be wrong here, and an equal amount of things that could be right, but he couldn’t seem to sort out the two. All ideas currently seemed like good ideas to him, and Meg expression held the spark of humor, like she already knew the answer. 

He nodded. “Yeah, they’re…”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, entirely unconcerned. “Eh, they’ll be out soon. You alright?”

He nodded again, but his fingers were tingling and the music was a little less harmonious than he remembered it being. The world was sliding back into view, the way it did when his trigger finger pulled away after a spent mag, and he didn't like it. He wanted to go back. 

Meg looks for something in his eyes, moving his hair away from his forehead. “You’re coming down,” she says gently. “Come here, I’ll make you a drink. It’ll help.”

Michael and Gavin weren’t gone long, ten minutes at best, but Meg’s “drinks” were easily defined as straight shots of gin with a filler for taste, and Ray’s momentary come down was overpowered by the sweet insouciance that accompanied his lack of sobriety. Michael gave him a strange look, entirely undecipherable in Ray’s blurred vision, and Gavin paid him no attention at all, content to join Meg and Jeremy for a new round. 

It was the last thing he remembered before he woke up to early afternoon sunshine. 

He was plastered against someone’s back, his head rising and falling slightly with each steady breath the person took, and Ray couldn’t fathom the energy to peel himself away. His head was pounding slightly, a well-deserved hangover, but his limbs felt weak and heavy. He kept his eyes shut, knowing the sunlight would be unbearable, and was content to let himself fall back asleep until a shoed foot collided with his ribs, just hard enough to be painful. 

“Get up, asshole,” Geoff’s voice cracked through Ray’s winded groan, moving his hand to rub gingerly at his side. He blinked his eyes open, furious at whoever thought it would be a good idea to open the blinds. 

“Geoff, what--”

“Come on, up and att'em,” he explained cheerily, digging his foot harder into Ray’s side while Ray desperately tried to roll away. The body beneath him shifted against the influx of movement, and Ray picked his head up enough to recognize dirty blonde hair and a lithe frame. 

How he fell asleep sprawled across Gavin, he’d never know. Hopefully no one took pictures. 

“Bugger off, Geoff,” he heard Gavin groan into the pillow that had been thrown on the floor. Ray batted Geoff’s encroaching foot away and peered around, trying to adjust to the light. Many people were gone already, but a few stragglers remained, passed out on various furniture or clinking around with dishes in the kitchen. He could faintly hear Meg’s sweet chattering, accompanied by a low rumbling voice that he didn’t recognize. Michael was sprawled across one of the couches, an arm thrown over his face, and Jeremy was crashed unceremoniously on the floor, pillows be damned. 

“Come on Narvaez, on your feet.”

Geoff was insistent, and Ray was getting really fucking sick of that shoe being wedged into his ribs, so he sat up, inwardly laughing at the drool stain he had left on the back of Gavin’s shirt. A small form of vengeance, but it still had him feeling smug. 

“What’s the hurry? And get your fucking foot away from me man, damn."

“Then get the fuck up,” Geoff replied, moving instead to pester Gavin now that Ray was working his way towards being a functioning human being. 

“Something going on?” He asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and reaching for a bottle of water that he desperately needed. 

“Yeah, something’s going on. I’ve got a fucking job for you, so get your head straight."

Geoff grinned at him, and Ray, in shock, promptly dropped his water on Gavin’s head. Gavin immediately lurched to life, cursing up a storm, but Geoff only laughed, clapping a startled Ray on the back. "C'mon, haven't you ever wondered what it felt like to be on the opposite end of a robbery? All of you meet me back at the warehouse in an hour. We're going to put you through a crash course of Stick-Up 101, Narvaez. Hope you're ready."

 

 


	13. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice long chapter to make up for the snoozefest that was 12. Expect some romance next chapter, since I've been drawing it out so long I don't know how you all haven't lost patience. 
> 
> Thanks for the love <3

Waking Michael up proved to be the chore of the fucking ages.

When Geoff went to nudge him with his foot, Michael immediately made an angry swipe for Geoff’s leg, seemingly combative even in his sleep. Geoff apparently sensed the danger and hesitated, finally motioning for Ray and Gavin to take over, reminding them not to be late while he booked it towards the front door.

Gavin was still furious at being drenched in water, and it took ten minutes just for Ray to placate him long enough to convince him to help. Michael ignored their pestering for the initial thirty seconds, rolling over to bury his face into the cushions along with a low, grumbled warning of death. Ray reached out to shake him more vigorously, but Michael was resolute.

“You’ve gotta be firm,” Gavin reprimanded, his eyes suddenly much more alert with a new opportunity to torment a sleeping Michael. He lifted his foot and kicked Michael square in the ass. Michael swiped out again with a fist, grumbling another colorful warning that had Ray backing up several feet in alarm, but it only seemed to encourage Gavin’s reckless nature, and he reached over curve of Michael’s shoulder to slap the redhead straight across the cheek.

Michael's reaction to the resounding slap was immediate, and he stumbled to his feet, dreary, furious eyes set directly on Gavin and nothing else.

“GAVIN!! I’m going to knock your fucking teeth in, you goddamn piece of SHIT! I’m going to fucking MURDER you!”

Gavin squeaked and vaulted over the edge of the couch, making an escape towards the kitchen, likely to hide behind Meg. Michael made to pursue him, but the aftermath of his nighttime romps were still in full effect, and after only a few steps he sank back down to his knees and buried his head into the cushions, arms stretched wide in fatigue.

“Gonna chop off all your fingers,” he was muttering into the fabric as Ray cautiously stepped closer. “Gonna put holes in all your parachutes and cut your brake lines. You’re fucking dead, Gavin…you’re fucking dead dog meat...”

“Michael?” Ray asked, apprehensive. He didn’t want to redirect Michael’s anger onto him, because he certainly didn’t feel like running away any more than Michael would feel like chasing him, but he also didn’t want to keep Geoff waiting. “Hey man, we gotta go.”

Michael paused, likely considering how much more limited energy he’d waste by yelling at Ray as well. “Where?”

“Warehouse. Geoff says he has a job for me.”

Michael turned his head to look up at Ray, and his eyes were bloodshot, the lines underneath them dark and baggy. “So? Fucking go then.”

Irritation temporarily clouded Ray’s judgement at the dismissive look on Michael’s face. Michael wasn’t the only one fucking tired. “I can’t, idiot. You drove me here, and Geoff already left. Besides, he said he wants all of us there. So unless you’re gonna spot me the twenty bucks for a taxi, I need a ride.”

Michael picked himself up from the floor and sat on the couch, looking entirely inconvenienced by Ray’s petty problems. “Just fucking steal a car, Ray. I’m not your chauffeur.”

“I’m supposed to be under your watch, remember?” Ray snapped. He’d had too little sleep and his headache was still too great of a pressure in his skull to put up with Michael’s childish bullshit. “You may not give a shit about appearances, but I’m trying to make a good impression. So either get your drunk ass up and drive me, or I’ll ask Gavin to do it, but considering all the trouble you went through to keep me alive, I don't know how you would think that's a good idea.”

Michael stared at him, quiet. Ray had struck a nerve somewhere in his tirade, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when Michael’s expression went from irritated to pensive. He might be pushing his luck, but he was tired, cranky, and above all, nervous.

Finally, Michael spoke, avoiding Ray’s eyes by looking down at Jeremy’s passed out figure across the floor. “Fine. But we’re stopping for coffee.”

“And food?”

“Of course for food. Christ. You and the stupid fucking questions. If you think I’m going to work with an entire bottle of Glenrothes splashing around in me on an empty stomach, you’re out of your goddamn mind. ”

It was a bid for complacency on both of their parts, and Ray could feel the tension in his stomach dissipate slightly as the tone between them switched back towards their usual insulting banter. Michael still looked furious, his red eyes matching the red marks of fingerprints that had still yet to fade from his face, but it was a shallow anger. He stood, rubbing his hands across his eyes, and motioned for Ray to follow.

“Gav, you absolute waste of fucking oxygen, are you coming?” Michael shouted to the kitchen. “I swear I won’t murder you until we’re less hungover. No guarantees after that though.”

“No,” Gavin’s voice called back, sounding tinny and fearful. “Meg’s gonna drop me off before she goes to work. Tell Geoff I’ll be late. Also, don’t be mad, please. And _please_ don’t rig my car with explosives again.”

Michael didn’t answer, but made a show of slamming the front door behind Ray when they exited. Ray blinked, shielding his eyes from the sun that was now high above the rooftops, reflecting a blinding light across the expanse of windows that made up the taller skyscrapers in the immediate distance. Michael glared at the world for a moment, as though he was furious it wouldn’t conform to his needs, before crunching across the graveled path towards his car.

Ray slid in the passenger’s seat, relaxing against the cold leather and trying to rid his body of the deep tremors that were seizing up his nerves and making his stomach churn.

“‘Supposed to feel like this?” He ground out as Michael shifted into gear beside him. “I feel wrung out. Like a ragdoll.”

“It’s mainly the alcohol,” Michael replied, and Ray could see goosebumps across his skin as well. “Good E won’t make you feel anything the next day, except maybe dehydrated. I don’t know why Meg gave you fucking alcohol last night; it’s a depressor, probably made your come down worse. You should’ve just gotten high.”

“She said it would help,” Ray offered, feeling a strange fondness for Meg, the woman who welcomed him into her home and helped him without prejudice.

“Yeah, but she's filled with perpetual fucking  _glee_ all the time, so I doubt she even has a comedown. Next time, find some weed,” Michael mumbled, and Ray nodded in response, wondering if he was even going to be present for ‘next time.’ If he even wanted to be. He was surprised at how much he had actually enjoyed the company (and the drugs), despite his ever-changing personal morals, but it could have easily been a lucky, first-timer experience. Not all episodes were likely to go as smoothly, and he wasn’t convinced that a bad trip was something he wanted to endure. He tried not to think about the moment he shared with Michael in the courtyard by the pool, how the only thing that had mattered was his secure touch and binding promises.

It seemed like an alternate life. A dream, maybe.The man driving next to him was different now, stern and hungover and showing no signs of recollection.

They fell into silence until Michael pulled into a drive thru coffee joint, ordering six coffees and a box of doughnuts. His voice sounded broken and weary, and he let his agitation weave through the cracks until he was whole, nothing but a fiery distemper that even the window worker seemed to sense, handing him his trays and bags as quickly and politely as possible. Ray set them on the floor by his feet as Michael took an immediate left, steering them back towards Idlewood.

“I’m sorry I had to wake you up, man,” Ray offered, trying to defuse some of the tension that had grown between them that morning. “Geoff literally kicked me awake, if it makes you feel better.”

Michael groaned in exasperation. “Stop apologizing for everything, for fuck’s sake. I don’t care I had to wake up. Geoff’s made me run on less sleep than this plenty of times. Gavin’s just been pissing me the fuck off, is all.”

Ray paused, wondering if he should ask. Michael and Gavin’s relationship was a mystery to him, and though Michael had assured him it was platonic, there was an itch of confusion digging through the back of his mind, and he wanted answers.

“You guys seemed fine last night.”

Michael stiffened, and Ray felt an immediate swoop of regret. Normally, he wouldn’t care what two people did behind closed doors, and Michael was justified in letting his secrets stay secrets, but the image in Ray’s head of Gavin pressing Michael against the wall was clouding into his field of vision from all angles, and some foolish, inquisitive part of him had to know more.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business,” Michael snapped, and Ray felt that distant tremor of fear creeping up his spine. The danger in his voice was reminiscent of the moment when they first met, and for a moment, Ray half expected to feel the Springfield against his skull once more.

“It’s not. But considering you told me that you guys weren’t a thing, I’m just wondering what else you’ve fucking lied to me about.”

Ray hadn’t realized it was true until it was out of his mouth, hanging in the air between them and thickening the tension until all it would take to ignite them would be the smallest of sparks, engulfing them into the fire that lay dormant between them.

“I’m here to train you, not to placate your jealousy,” Michael snapped, making a corner too sharply and frightening a woman back up onto the curb. Ray moved to put his feet against the drink holders, keeping them from spilling across Michael’s car. He ignored the jealousy comment and focused on his argument, on what he needed to know. The man next to him was the only connection he had to his new world, the only lifeline, and Michael’s dishonesty would shred his nerves into a pathetic sprinkle across the pavement.

“And how are you supposed to accurately train me if I can’t trust you? Keep all your secrets, I don’t care. Just don’t fucking lie.”

“I’m not lying!” Michael shouted, and it was too loud for the car, too aggressive. It was the response to so many questions that Ray hadn’t asked, and the fallout of dealing with this topic far before Ray had even come along. He paused, steadying himself, and breathed out heavily. “Look, I’m not… I’m not lying. I don’t have a thing with Gavin. Sometimes we fool around, but it’s not…” He shifted slightly, gripping the wheel in his hands _hard_. “He’s been there for me, when things went south, and we’re close. Sometimes it manifests itself physically if we’re drinking or...whatever. He just takes it too far sometimes, and then I have to deal with people’s questions, and I just get fucking sick of it, okay?”

“Alright,” Ray agreed, slightly taken aback and scrambling to lighten the mood. “Chill dude. Everyone has a gay thing now and then.”

“Keep pushing your luck, Ray. Keep it up.”

The short conversation and enlightenment had shifted their moods, and while they remained relatively silent for the remainder of the drive, it was peaceful. Michael nodded his head towards the dash where Ray found a bottle of painkillers, and he didn’t even need Michael’s instructive look to start dishing them out for their headaches. It was domestic in a way that was almost alarming, but Ray refused to look deeper into it. He’d done that too much already.

His descent back into his comfort levels was so pronounced he had all but forgotten where they were driving too, and why. When Michael pulled in back of the warehouse, Ray swallowed, suddenly remembering Geoff’s distinct wording and wondering if he had intentionally found a job for Ray that entailed robbing a convenience store.

The irony wasn’t lost on him as he grabbed the boxes and followed Michael inside.

  


///

  


Geoff made an inhuman sound of gracious relief when Ray and Michael pushed open the doors to Geoff’s office, or the Heist Room, as Michael had been referring to it as. He immediately made childish grabby hands for one of the coffees, sighing gratefully when Michael passed one over.

“You’re a hero, Michael. You’re a goddamn hero.”

Michael smiled, passing another coffee to Jack, who was sorting through a manila folder. “Yeah well, that’s why you hired me, isn’t it? You wanted to be me when you grew up.”

Geoff scoffed, moving back to reclaim his seat in front of the computer. “No, I hired you because you were the undefeated champ over at Dempsey’s.” He paused, considering. “I was a little concerned you wouldn’t listen to me, though. Go rogue.”

“Abandon you, Geoff? _Never,”_ Michael admonished playfully, and Geoff gave his monitor a tired smile.

“I know. You got doughnuts too, right?”

Ray took his cue and put the box down on the table, reaching over to snatch his own coffee before someone else could move on to their second cup. There was a general clamor as everyone shuffled to put sugar and caffeine in their bodies, with Michael and Ray perking up considerably while Jack and Geoff seemed slow on the uptake, likely due to the decade of age their bodies had over the younger two.

Ryan meandered in with a backpack slung over his shoulder ten minutes later, looking completely well-rested and intimidating, as per usual. He ignored his proffered cup of coffee and instead pulled a diet coke out of the fridge, taking a seat next to Geoff and flipping through the folder Jack handed him.

Michael and Geoff were ribbing each other, carefully construed insults and half-assed plans on how to best torment Gavin once he arrived. Ray tried to make himself comfortable, but it felt too intrusive to ease in on the casual conversation they had between them, so he stayed quiet and tried to will his headache away with coffee and copious amounts of creamer.

Finally, Geoff turned towards him, looking more alert than he had twenty minutes previously. “So, how’re your ribs?”

“Sore, thanks,” he responded. “Feels like a took a baseball bat to my side.”

“Well, get used to it,” Geoff replied easily, stretching in his chair. “You want to be a part of this crew, a lot of sacrifices come with it. Michael, how much pain would you say you’re in on a daily basis?”

“Well, considering I’m not breathing through a fucking tube right now, I’d say it’s a good day for me, all things considered.” Ray saw him run his hand across his jacket, feeling the stitches on his arm beneath it. “Can’t guarantee tomorrow though.”

“So is that what that was?” Ray raised an eyebrow, “You getting me used to waking up in agonizing pain?”

Geoff laughed, draining the rest of his coffee and moving on towards Ryan’s untouched cup. “No, no I was just being a dick. That’ll happen too.”

Ray shook his head, amused. “Starting to regret not being traded, honestly. You uh, said something about a job?”

Geoff hummed slightly, savoring his drink. “Yup. Are we waiting for Gavin?” He questioned aloud to the group, and Michael resolutely shook his head.

“Nope. He’s still at Meg’s, said he’d be late. I’m going to drink his fucking coffee though, and I urge everyone in the room to leave him only the jelly doughnuts, since they make him blow chunks.”

“Agreed,” Geoff replied casually, before clearing his throat and looking over at Jack. “Jack, you want to give us the briefing before we start to fine-tune?”

Jack stretched out his arms, cracking his back slightly before shuffling the papers on the table in front of him. He still looked tired, a little worse for wear, but it seemed to have no effect on his work ethic if his confident, booming voice was anything to go by.

“Alright. Word on the grapevine is that one Lakshay Kumar has been running an arms dealership out of his convenience store over in Sandy Shores.” He tossed a printed photo taken by a security camera out onto the table for everyone to see. “We had originally planned for a basic stick up to bag his profits, but our prerogative has changed. It looks like he wasn’t happy with the money he was making, and has moved up to bigger crimes. I’ve got some text messages here between him and one Martin Hinojosa that imply a child trafficking deal about to go through -- Twenty four thousand dollars for a six year old blonde girl named Vivian.”

There was a collective shift of discomfort among the group, and Ray was relieved to know that he wasn’t the only person who was extremely unnerved by Jack’s words. Human trafficking was bad, but child trafficking was, in Ray’s opinion, one of the sickest things an individual could conspire to do. If the fierce scowl on Michael’s face and the anger in Geoff’s eyes were anything to go by, they seemed to share his lack of apathy for that particular crime.

Jack cleared his throat before continuing, letting the information sink into the room. “Now, Lakshay Fuckface has trust issues, like most of the immigrants, so he’s keeping all his illegally acquired funds in a safe somewhere in his building. The money for the girl has already been handed over, and all that’s left is the actual transfer of what they refer to as “property.” Lakshay is too much of a pussy to do the work himself, so he’s hired a Vago by the name of Enrique to kidnap the girl from Rockford Hills on Friday evening, when she’ll be left alone with a babysitter while the parents go out for their weekly dinner reservations. Enrique is making six grand for it, so Lakshay will still profit a cool eighteen grand once the girl is handed over to Martin at his store late Friday night.”

Jack paused, pulling out more printed photos and laying them on the table. Ray scanned them quickly, taking in profiles of Enrique, Martin, Lakshay, and the small little girl, Vivian, who was photographed walking home from school with her mother, her oversized backpack hanging down to the back of her knees as she smiled. Ray felt a lurch of anger and fear in his stomach for her, and moved on to study the other pictures, printouts of locations and circled areas on a large map.

“So,” Geoff interrupted the silence. “We’re essentially doing two jobs here. Initially, we’re going to be waiting for Enrique at the child’s residence. We’ll pop him off before he can get the girl, but by that time, the sitter will likely have heard the commotion and called the cops. We can go ahead and assume that Lakshay will be booking it if he hears the deal went bad, and there’s a chance that we could lose him. So the question becomes: do we split into two teams, or do we stick together and hope we can take Enrique out silently?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ we split into two teams?” Michael interrupted, putting his feet up on the table and sounding unconvinced. “Wouldn’t make sense to stick together. We don’t need five or six guys to take down one armed Vago.”

“Well, Narvaez is taking him down, so we need to be prepared for an obscene amount of failures,” Geoff answered lightly.

Ray’s heart jolted, and he sat up straighter. “Wait, what? Why me?”

Geoff shrugged. “You’ve gotta start somewhere. This is as good of a job as any.”

“But this is a child’s _life,_ ” Ray argued, disbelieving. “If something goes wrong, if I miss--”

“Then don’t fucking miss!” Geoff spat out, and Ray quieted. He was baffled. There was too much riding on this job, and he knew wasn’t ready for the responsibility. He couldn’t honestly imagine that Geoff thought he was either, all things considered. There was a brief moment where he entertained the idea that Geoff might be setting him up for failure, but something in the boss’ eyes told Ray he wouldn’t risk the girl’s life just to prove Ray wasn’t worthy.

“I thought you said I’d be doing a gas station run,” he argued softly, and Geoff sighed.

“Things change. I had no idea he was a child trafficker until Jack told me when I got here. I considered having you stick by the gas station with the secondary team regardless, but the more I thought about it, the less of a good idea it seemed. Lakshay is going to have security there, maybe a few hired thugs, and they’re going to be waiting for an ambush. It’s too high-stress of an environment, and I don’t want you to freak.”

“No,” Ray shook his head defiantly. “No, send me to the store. I’m not going to have that little girl’s life in my hands. I’ll be too distracted and worried to do my job.”

Geoff looked ready to dispute the matter, to fight his stance on Ray’s position, but Michael cut him off. “Makes sense, Geoff. Caring throws off your focus, you know that. Put him with the convenience store group, he’ll be better there; let him concentrate on merc’ing dudes while someone else watches the kid.”

Ray shot Michael a relieved look, hoping to put his thanks into words, but Michael merely shrugged at him, tipping his chair until it hovered on the back legs.

“I’ll go for the girl and Enrique,” Ryan interrupted. “Intimidation plays a big part for single kills, and I’ve got that going way more than the rest of you. The only problem will have to be chasing Enrique down when he pisses himself and runs.”

“Alright,” Geoff agreed with an amused smile, ignoring the frightened, curious look Ray was giving Ryan. “Jack, I’d prefer you to go with Ryan. If things go south and someone needs to stay with Vivian, you’re the best person for that. She’ll trust you more than the rest of us.”

Jack nodded his head, seemingly unaffected at being called out as the most sensitive and empathetic of the group. Ray’s brain was ticking, quickly realizing that each of them had something to offer the crew, a personal set of skills that could easily be a hindrance alone, but a necessity together. He quickly tried to figure out where he could play into that, what he had to offer them, but came up empty.

“Cool. Then Michael, you and I will accompany Narvaez to the gas station. Since Gavin decided to be a minsey little cocksucker and not show up, he can be on surveillance. Jack and I are going to fine tune the details on this, and we’ll meet back here in a few hours. Ryan, see if you can find anything about how many people might have answered a call for a bodyguard job for Friday night; we might be able to get a head count on the opposition. Michael, you and Narvaez go up to the range and get some target practice in. Make sure he knows what’s going to happen.”

Ray looked at Michael, hoping to understand what Geoff was implying, but Michael only returned Geoff’s grave expression and nodded, moving to stand up. “My keycard is still good to go, right? I haven’t used it in awhile.”

"Yeah, you’re fine,” Geoff waved him off. “Take only what you need though, we’re running low. Next week I’m sending you out on a supply run with the profits made off that Vangelico’s stunt.”

“Oh! Sure was nice of someone to bring in that extra few million, wasn’t it? What a fucking guy.”

Michael grinned, but Geoff only flipped him off and turned to pour over the manila folders that were stacked next to Jack’s arm. Ryan pulled a laptop out of his bag and sat down on the couch, immediately focused on his work, and Ray felt that familiar itch to be involved, only this time, it was coupled with the faint hint of eagerness at the realization he _was_ going to play a part. He was in on this. Michael nudged him with his elbow, silently requesting him to follow, and started leading him out of the door and down the stairs towards the basement.

Ray had never been down this far, usually staying close to the infirmary when he was locked up, or up on the makeshift range. At the bottom of the staircase was a large, imposing iron door, entirely blank except for a card reader and a set of numerical buttons. A small black camera blinked a recording light at them, reminding him that he was being watched, but Michael ignored it. He pulled a black card from his wallet, and Ray saw the flash of green lettering splattered across it, spelling out FAKE AH CREW, before Michael was swiping it through the reader and stuffing it back into his wallet. He hid his hand from Ray’s view as he punched in a series of numbers, and Ray tried to not be offended by it. This was their armory, after all, where they kept everything of high value. It would be a long time before he was allowed in here without an escort.  

“Don’t touch anything,” Michael warned as the light on the door blinked green and he pulled the handle open. The door was thick, and it took a moment to detach itself from the frame long enough for Michael and Ray to slip inside.

Ray’s jaw wanted to drop. The room was huge, with supplies pressed into every open space and corner that made full use of the area. The walls were decorated neatly with wall-to-ceiling racking systems, and multiple tables were spaced out through the middle, piled high with vests, masks, grenades, duffel bags, mines, and a multitude of other ordnance that Ray never thought he’d see in person. The back was was taken up by a large metal cabinet and drawer system, which Ray assumed held all of the mags and ammunition.

“How have you guys not gotten ransacked?” Ray questioned, moving forward to examine the first table, which stockpiled flashlights and several types of melee weapons.

Michael scoffed. “People aren’t stupid enough to try and break in here, usually. The one guy that did, some Ballas asshole who was pretty in debt to a card shark, well, he ended up outside of D’s house with his own fingers stuffed down his throat.”

Ray turned to look at him, unable to keep the shock out of his expression. “Jesus, dude.”

Michael only shrugged, turning away from him to scan the first rack of pistols. “What? You’ve got to make an impression. When someone starts getting too brave, we send out friendly reminders to their bosses from time to time to keep their people in line.”

“And who is ‘we’?”

“Usually Ryan. Sometimes me, if I’ve had a bad day. Geoff, if it’s personal. Come over here, stop touching shit.”

Ray immediately withdrew his hand from where he had been about to run his finger across a machete, and went to stand next to Michael. He tried not the let the image Michael had created fester in his head, but something about the newfound knowledge was scratching for his attention, and he couldn’t help when a snapshot of Michael appeared in his mind, armed with a glinting knife, slicing off the index finger of a screaming Ballas in the very chair Ray had been tied to less than a month ago. His stomach squirmed unpleasantly, but he was once again struck by how lucky his situation turned out to be. Being on Michael’s side was a far cry better than ending up with the Vagos, or as an innocent bystander in the local gangs’ constant pissing contests.

“Is it weird if I tell you how easy it is to image you torturing people?”

Michael shrugged, reaching out to pull one of the pistols from it’s designated spot. “Little bit. It’s not my forte though, and Ryan is much better at it. I use knives, he uses string.”

“ _String?”_ Ray repeated, alarmed. He had seen enough cult movies to realize what Ryan had been doing, and if he hadn’t been wary of the man before, he definitely was now. “That’s fucked up, man. Seriously.”

“Yeah, the Ballas thought so too,” Michael agreed with a small laugh. “They haven’t tried to break in again though, so, you know, it’s effective. Here, what do you think of this?”

He pushed the pistol into Ray’s hands, and Ray wrapped his fingers around it carefully. It was larger and heavier than Michael’s Springfield and the Glock that Ray had been using at the range during his practices with Ryan. The weight surprised him and he tightened his grip, feeling cold metal underneath his fingers rather than a lightweight plastic. The barrel was longer, and the grip more secure, more gritty. It felt good in his hands, like the fusing of a connection he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting to make.

“It’s a 1911,” Michael offered, when Ray showed no signs of answering his question. “A little old school, but a good fucking gun all the same. You want it? Or would you rather have one of the newer models? There’s some 21’s here--”

“No way,” Ray interrupted, turning the pistol around in his fingers, feeling out the small little grooves and nuances. “Are you kidding me? Look at this fucking thing. It’s like sex, except I actually get to have it.”

Michael snorted in laughter. “Alright then, can’t ask for more closure than that. Come on, we’ll get some mags and go upstairs.”

Ray didn’t relinquish his possessive grip on the 1911 while Michael grabbed the mags and made their way out of the armory and up towards the range. As they passed by the closed door to the office, they caught wind of Gavin’s sheepish mutterings being drowned out by Geoff’s angry lecturing. They passed by it quickly, though Ray caught a sidelong look at Michael’s snickering face before they moved up the stairway.

Once on the range, Michael showed him how to properly load a magazine, which took up more time than Ray would have guessed as Michael made him redo it until he was satisfied. It was companionable though, and Michael’s agitation seemed to have lessened now that he was in his element and not fueled by a pressure to seem at least somewhat invested.

Ray was following Michael’s lead and slipping his rounds into the mag, concentration unfocused and drifting with the monotony of the task. Michael sat next to him, their backs against the wall, and Ray wondered whether Michael would have been doing this before Ray broke through their ranks and shifted the dynamic. Maybe Michael wouldn’t practice, maybe he’d be up with Geoff and Jack, planning and organizing. The thought of Michael alone on the range, stiffed by a hungover and fleeting Gavin, struck him as oddly sad and forlorn.

He finished his mag and set it aside, rubbing his sore thumbs. “What did Geoff mean, make sure I’m ‘ready?’ He wasn’t talking about skills.”

Michael finished off another mag slowly, nothing but precision and concentration until he finally placed it next to their completed pile. “You’re right. He doesn’t want you to freak out.”

“About killing a guy? I’ve done that once already, and considering the aftermath, I think I did pretty fucking okay coming to terms with it,” he reasoned lightly.

He had, really. He expected a mental backlash to send him spiraling down into nightmares and guilt, but nothing had come of it. He’d killed a man, left him lying dead across his bathroom floor, yet had given it only back-burner thought for the past month.

“Sure you did,” Michael agreed, but there was an argument in his casual tone, and Ray prepared himself for another lesson in all the things he knew he’d need to learn. “But that’s because Bruce was going to kill you. He was going to pop a cap straight through my fucking skull, then turn on you and snap your neck. His specialty,” Michael added at the curious look on Ray’s face. “It was all defense, and fight-or-flight instincts. You didn’t feel guilty because you didn’t _need_ to feel guilty. It was either you, or him. You probably feel like you did the world a favor.”

Ray waited as Michael slid a magazine into his pistol and paused, chewing over his words. The calm in the air between them was intoxicating, and Ray wanted to live for these private moments, when Michael would let Ray witness that small window of opportunity to understand him, to see through the cracks of Michael’s walls and allow him an inkling of something hidden, something sacred and reserved.

“It might not be like that, this time,” he continued, and the waves of his voice only added to the atmosphere around them, heavy and promising. Ray tried to focus, because Michael’s eyes were graced with a hint of sadness, of memories long forgotten until only the fading traces of pain remained, to be carried with him until the embrace of death. “You’re going to have your scope set on someone you don’t even know. Someone who’s turned away from you, talking to their buddy, taking a piss. Your finger will be on the trigger, and you’ll hesitate. You’ll think of his weeping mother, identifying his body at the morgue. You’ll wonder if he has a girlfriend at whatever shithole he calls home, pregnant with the kid that he’ll never meet. You’ll think, hell, maybe he didn’t even _want_ to do this job, maybe he just needs the money. Maybe for that kid. You’ll think of all the reasons in the world why you shouldn’t decorate the wall with his fucking brains.”

Ray could picture it in his head, the moment when a nameless target became Brett, father of two. Or Chuck, who was trying to pay for his sister’s heart surgery. He became Ray, who was caught up in the crossfire of a long-standing battle between vigilantes and criminals and anarchists.

“I wonder how he’d feel if it was his kid getting sold to the highest bidder,” Ray retorted, trying to reassure himself that he’d never fall victim to that sympathy. No excuse in the world would make what they were doing forgivable. He’d pull the trigger without hesitation.

“And I wonder how you’ll feel when he’s on his knees in front of you, begging you for his life,” Michael countered easily, and Ray looked up at him again, unnerved to find that the perpetual fire in Michael’s eyes had dimmed. He was worried. He was worried that Ray wouldn’t have the guts, that he would be too involved, and he’d back down.

“Michael, I--”

“No, Ray, I’m fucking serious. If you fucking hesitate, you’re dead. People will play you to stay alive, and if you think _I’m_ lacking in morals, these cocksuckers are going to throw you for a fucking loop.” He met Ray’s eyes, and it was earnest in a way Ray would never have come to expect, like a silent pleading to listen, to _understand._ “I don’t want you to get out there with this underdeveloped sense of confidence just to see you shot down because some asshole convinced you his life was important in the grand scale of things.”

He paused, passing Ray a mag to load. “You’re the nice guy. You’re the stupid fucking idiot that takes a criminal back to his base of operations even after the dick pointed a gun at you and stole every goddamn cent you had. You’re the guy that trusts somebody because they’ve never given you a reason not to. You’re the guy everyone wishes they hadn’t lost. Los Santos decimates guys like you.”

Ray swallowed thickly as Michael stood, holding out a hand to help Ray up. He accepted it and was pulled to his feet, but Michael held his wrist for a fleeting moment, urging Ray to look at him.

“Don’t be that guy, Ray. After all the fucking trouble I went through to keep you alive, don’t thank me by victimizing worthless scum and getting shot in the fucking back.”

Ray nodded, reluctantly pulling his arm away from Michael grip. “I won’t,” he muttered, and again, he was surprised at how resolute his voice sounded. How convinced he felt. “I won’t hesitate.”

“Good to hear, man. Now, let’s see what you can do with that 1911.”

  


///

  


They made their way back to the office a little under two hours later, and Ray’s hands and arms were sore and tingling. Luckily, his sessions with Ryan had help build up a small amount of muscle in his arms, but the Glocks he had been using previously were light, and this new pistol had Ray’s biceps and shoulders aching at the alteration of weight. It was a good pain though, full of promise and the inkling of a change Ray was grasping fervently for.

He and Michael had taken turns on the range, firing until their mags were spent. Conversation flowed like second nature during the gaps, and Ray found himself smiling again, content to let Michael shift his posture, small corrections and hints that had his aim singing true and straight. He’d stand to the side during Michael’s turn, all too aware of the loaded firearm in his hands and the trust Michael had given him, and watched the minuscule force of recoil shoot through Michael’s muscles as if time had slowed. Much to his dismay, innocent thoughts were thrown out the proverbial window and Ray had to distract himself by watching Michael’s marks instead of the way his fingers curled around the grip.

Jack and Geoff were still pouring over maps and what looked to be photographs of Vivian’s house at the table when they returned, and Ryan was on the couch, his eyes narrowed at a collection of dossiers spread out on his lap. Gavin was seated at the computer, a headset covering his ears as he listened intently to something, fingers tapping on the keyboard sporadically. He looked focused and determined, a complete counter to what Ray had come to expect from him.

Geoff looked up curiously when Michael strode forward, placing Ray’s now empty 1911 on the table in front of him. “Where’d you dig that up?”

“We have a few down there still,” Michael answered lightly, motioning for Ray to sit at the table with him. “Had to brush the cobwebs off, but it was well worth it, I assure you.”

Geoff’s eyes flicked over Ray momentarily, before feigning disinterest and staring back down at the map. “How were the marks?”

“Nearly every one was straight in the ten ring,” Michael grinned, throwing his feet back up on the table as Ray took a seat next to him. The pride was tangible in Michael’s tone, and Ray’s stomach churned in the appreciation of being recognized.

Geoff seemed to falter for a moment, like he was still surprised at Ray’s efficiency with a firearm, but managed to make his scoff sound genuine. “Just blow him already, Michael. I’m not your mother, and you don’t need to drag your new boyfriend home to try and impress me.”

“You _do_ owe me, Michael,” Ray interrupted, and Michael shot him a curious, slightly bewildered expression. “After all, I never did get my two grand back.”

Michael made a face at him, catching on. “What, you’d rather have a beej than two grand? That’s foolish, Ray. A whore on the street will do it for $20, or $50 if you want her to be guaranteed clean.”

“It’s a power blow though!’ Ray argued. “If I paid you two grand for a blowjob, I’d be paying for dominance. Money well spent.”

“I’ll pay you two grand to stop this conversation,” Geoff cut in, but there was humor hidden beneath the exasperation.

Michael had been watching Ray closely, studying him with a small smile, but when Geoff spoke he turned and slapped his hand on the table. “Deal. Pay up Geoffrey.”

“Michael, it’s going to sound like I’m telling you to fuck off, but--”

Ryan stood and moved towards the table, effectively cutting off Geoff as he pointed towards the 1911 forgotten on the table. “Is this what you’re using?”

The question was directed at Ray, and he took a moment to answer, surprised at being spoken to directly, like his opinion mattered. Like Ryan actually _cared_ about his response. “Yeah. I mean, if it’s cool.”

“You’ll need a suppressor,” Ryan mused, picking the pistol up and testing the weight in his hands. “Michael, are you on inventory for this?”

Michael pushed his chair back again, balancing it carefully on it’s back legs, another habit Ray added to his ever-growing knowledge of Michael’s preferences. “I can be, if you need it. Have we figured out the game plan?”

“Yeah,” Jack sighed, looking weary. “Just waiting to see what Gavin can scrounge up.”

Gavin seemed to sense his name floating around the room, because he groaned audibly and pulled his headset off, rising to join them at the table. His hair was mussed up, and his eyes were still bloodshot and tired, but his stance was alert and focused.

“Couldn’t dig up much that we didn’t already know,” he started, tossing himself into a chair next to Ray. “I managed to find Lakshay’s purchase history from his card, and it looks like the idiot bastard has prepped himself a getaway. Stupid, too. He’s got a... dinghy.”

Michael laughed. “You say dinghy like it’s… I don’t know, like it’s a dirty word or something.”

Gavin shot him an irritated look. “It feels like a dirty word when it’s in my mouth! I don’t like it. I’m gonna say ding-dong.”

Geoff cradled his face in his hands, shaking in laughter, and Ray placed his head in his arms on the table, trying to hide the grin from his face as he spoke. “Guys! Guys! He’s getting away on the ding-dong, get him!”

Michael burst into laughter, immediately mimicking Gavin’s accent. “Ooy, Micoo, I told you he had a ding-dong, Micoo. Go get him while I have a kip on the side of the mountain, oho!”

“Michael!” Gavin chided, struggling to be heard through everyone’s roars of laughter. “That was one time, and I had a concussion! And you didn’t even take me to the hospital when you found me!”

Michael shrugged, still smiling. “It was _one_ concussion. Everyone gets like, four freebies.”

“They do _not_!”

“Alright, shut up” Geoff interrupted, his face red from laughter. “Gavin, you’ve got location on the ding-dong dick-boat, so we’ll know where he’s running to if things go south. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Gavin replied, looking slightly flustered at the teasing, though his dark expression had brightened significantly. Ray was quickly realizing that Gavin would rather be teased then yelled at, and Michael’s and Geoff’s anger this morning had probably left him in a negative mood. “I was listening in to the police scanner just now, and they’ve got some kind of ball this Friday night. Loads of officers will be there, so patrol will be cut down by at least half.”

“Good for us, bad for Vivian,” Geoff contemplated, tapping his finger against one of the photographs. He paused, considering, before speaking again. “Alright. This should be an easy hit. Vivian’s parents are down for reservations at….”

“Eight-thirty,” Gavin supplied, and Geoff nodded.

“Eight-thirty, right. I want Ryan and Jack in position at seven. The backyard is concealed by hedging, and there’s a good six foot tall shed that you guys can shelter up behind. I have no idea about Enrique’s plan of attack, so be on alert, because he’ll probably head straight for your location.”

“He favors a MP7,” Ryan interrupted, tossing Enrique’s dossier on the table. “It’s what he’s usually seen with, and it’ll seem terrifying to a little girl, so we should expect him to be bringing that to the table. There was also an incident two years ago with an Azteca -- the guy sliced one of Enrique’s eyes open, so knives will likely unnerve him.”

“Well, that’s your specialty, so I’ll leave it up to you how you want to go about it,” Geoff replied nonchalantly, scanning over Enrique’s dossier. “Just _don’t_ do it in front of the little girl please. Jack, try and get her away from the scene as quickly as possible, if you can. She’s going to be traumatized enough.”

“Of course,” Jack nodded solemnly, and Ryan shrugged, entirely unconcerned about potentially mentally scarring a small child.

“Once Enrique is dead, Jack calls the cops, and you guys book it out of there.” He gestured at Ray and Michael, “Team fucking BFF and I will be down at Lakshay’s place. There’s an abandoned hotel across the street we can hole up in, just make sure he doesn’t see anyone’s cars, so park about a mile out. If he has guards--”

“Two confirmed,” Ryan cut in, and Gavin nodded in agreement.

“Alright, two guards at least, then. We’ll figure out how best to strategize taking them out once we’re there. We should have a few hours to kill when we’re holed up. Michael, I need you to bring some C4 with you, just in case we off Lakshay before we get him to open his safe. A quarter block should do fine.”

“No problem,” Michael muttered, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, looking half-asleep.

“Gavin, you’re on surveillance, so I want you posted up at that computer at all times. You do _not_ leave for any circumstances other than avoiding decapitation or something. You’re also on gear duty Friday morning.”

“What--” Gavin stuttered, looking extremely put-out. “Why do I have to be on gear duty?”

“Because you chose to stay home and bang your girlfriend rather than show up on time to a mandatory crew meeting!”

“Also, you’re a piece of shit,” Michael offered, his head still tilted back and eyes closed.

“Fine,” Gavin muttered, crossing his arms. “Don’t be so surprised when you end up without ammo again though, Michael.”

Michael opened his eyes immediately, lowering his chair as slowly and ominously as possible, fixing Gavin with a terrifying, challenging stare that Ray _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to get out of his head for a long time. Gavin tensed, sensing the danger he had put himself in, and instantly tried to backtrack, the ghost of a smile across his face.

“I’m kidding. Kidding! Michael--don’t, please.”

Michael made to stand up, but Geoff unceremoniously pushed him back down into his chair. “No fighting during a hangover, girls. I don’t want to listen to you two whining about split lips in addition to splitting headaches. So put your dicks away and handle it some other time.”

Gavin followed orders, smirking over the table at Michael like he’d won a personal victory, and Ray was quick enough on the uptake to realize that this was routine between them, a constant seesawing of undeniable affection and debilitating anger. It was tumultuous, and Ray wondered how they avoided letting it border on toxic.

“Alright,” Geoff cleared his throat. “So we’ve got a general idea here. Tomorrow is Friday, so I want everyone recovered and fully functional in 24 hours, when we’ll convene back here for a final rundown. Lay low until then, stay out of trouble, and don’t take any jobs. Now get the fuck out of here, it’s my anniversary and I have reservations.”

There was a collective clatter, a small catcall by Jack, and everyone was grabbing their bags or paperwork and moving towards the door. Ray made to leave with them, but Geoff grabbed his shoulder none too kindly and steered him away from the exit and any eavesdroppers.

When he was pushed around the face the boss, Geoff’s face was the epitome of a well controlled, respectable man, but his voice was laced with a dangerous venom, self-assured and cataclysmic.

“You know that I will kill you, right?”

Ray could hear the _‘if you…’_ hanging on the end of that sentence, but he didn’t need the reminder any more than Geoff needed to say it. ‘If’ anything. If Ray fucked up, Geoff would kill him; if Ray betrayed Michael, Geoff would kill him; if Ray even moved in a way that resembled an inkling of ulterior motives, Geoff would fucking _kill_ him.

Ray nodded, and Geoff leaned in closer.

“After I kill you, I will kill your family. I’ll mail your body parts to your mother in a way that keeps you so beautifully preserved that she’ll never be able to wash your fucking blood off of her fingers. I’ll kill your siblings, one by one, and they will know, above all else, that I’m coming, and they will know that it’s all because of you. I will destroy every single thing in this world that ever gave you a _glimpse_ of what it meant to be happy. Do you understand?”

Ray swallowed thickly and nodded again. “You’re um, laying it on a little thick with the old ‘dad on the porch with a shotgun’ thing, aren’t you?”

Geoff studied him with eyes that had seen more than Ray ever would. Fierce, steeled eyes that had drawn confessions from the city’s most tight-lipped sharks and criminals. Eyes that saw secrets in traitors and scarred histories in aloof, stoic individuals. There was an understanding born there, a swift and calculating conclusion that had Geoff’s arm tightening on his shoulder.

“Is that something I need to get into?”

“No,” Ray rectified instantly, realizing what he had just inadvertently admitted, and his blood ran cold. “No, it’s not...no.”

Geoff opened his mouth, likely to call Ray out on his complete and utter bullshit, but was interrupted by Michael, who was casually leaning against the doorframe by the exit, fingers tapping into a phone.

“Geoff, can I have that back, man? I want to go home.”

Geoff let go of his arm, as if on command, and his eyes reverted back to that perpetually tired glaze. “Yeah, yeah. Get the fuck out of here. ...Michael--”

“I _know,_ Geoff. It’s fine.”

  


///

  


“Should I even ask what Geoff threatened you with?”

Michael’s penthouse was exactly how they had left it, but Michael still did a quick once over, checking for signs of forced entry. Ray stood there quietly, not wanting to disturb what he realized was a customary ritual upon returning home, but Michael had apparently eased his way into monotonous perfection of the task and spoke to Ray as he checked the doorway and floorboards, waiting for Ray’s answer.

“What I suspect is the usual,” Ray admitted, picking at the leaves on Michael’s artificial fern. “Death on me, death on my family, et cetera. Turns out he _really_ doesn’t want you end up with a knife in your neck.

Michael laughed softly, deeming the area clean, before turning towards Ray. “He really doesn’t give me enough credit.”

“What do you mean?”

Michael held up a finger, silencing him, and reached over his kitchen counter, fishing around in one of the drawers. “Here,” he smiled, straightening out and tossing Ray the switchblade he had retrieved. “Try me.”

Ray fumbled, catching it in his fingers at the last moment, and shot Michael a dirty look. “Dude, you can’t just be tossing knives around--”

“Don’t be a bitch, Ray--”

“--cut my damn finger off--”

“--Only if you’re a _moron_ \--”

“--like a fucking _circus_ with you--”

“Just shut up and try to stab me.”

Ray paused, giving Michael a once over. The switchblade in his hand went from a piece of equipment to molten lead faster than he could give his social blights credit for, and he nearly dropped it on instinct.

“Why the fuck would I try and stab you, Michael--”

“Just do it,” Michael sighed, “Come on, humor me.”

Ray curled his fingers around the steel, trying to imagine all of the ways this could go horribly wrong. He could almost feel Michael’s flesh slicing open beneath his fingers, and he took a step back. “What if I fucking--”

“You _won’t,_ Ray, come on. Trust me.”

Those hollow words were ringing in his ears, a scratched disc gone haywire until Michael’s simple request was a collection of sounds that Ray was certain had no meaning at all. Trust him. Ray _did_ trust him. But what the fuck had he done to earn that same trust in return?

Michael was waiting for him, his stance slightly more secure than it had been earlier, and Ray didn’t have time to marvel about how he was far more concerned about unintentionally hurting Michael than he was about Michael intentionally hurting _him,_ just to make a point. A moment of indecision passed before he was stepping forward, trying to be quick, trying to keep the element of surprise, and he had to work to convince himself that he wanted nothing more than to sink his blade deep into the skin on Michael’s neck.

But Michael was quicker, and his reaction was instantaneous. He kicked the inside of Ray’s knee and Ray buckled, his forward momentum shot, and Ray had only a split second view of Michael’s delighted grin before his left arm was flying at him, nothing but purpose and intent. His open-ended hand struck Ray directly on the knuckles, and the switchblade went flying out of his grip and sliding across the wood floor. Michael grabbed his right arm and twisted it back, bringing their shoulders together as Ray’s wrist shot spasms of pain up to his brain, warning him of a situation he was entirely unable to prevent.

“I could break your wrist right now,” Michael laughed against him, giving Ray’s arm a small nudge as if to prove his point, and Ray hissed in pain.

“I totally believe you. You should...not do that.”

He could feel Michael’s chest against his, the slight build of muscles that reminded him exactly how practiced Michael really was. Considering several of his bones were in immediate peril, he really shouldn’t have been concentrating on his proximity to the man who could easily be his undoing, but when Michael laughed again, it was too close, and the heat from his body was too damning. He frantically pleaded in his mind for Michael to release him, both from the pain and from the ever-evolving realization that his wants may not be as entirely platonic as he’d imagined.

Michael’s grip eased up, and Ray pulled himself away quickly, rubbing his sore wrist and letting out a shaky exhale. “Alright. Point proven. Please relay to Geoff that my attempts to murder you are pathetic and I am overcome with shame.”

“What, you said you wanted me to teach you, right? First lesson.”

Ray looked up, almost startled. It was the first mention of their secluded moment from the previous night, and the avoidance up until then had Ray certain that he’d made most of it up in his delirious, drug-induced ecstasy. The words they had spoken seemed blurred together, a blissful moment that was tied closely to things Ray had only _wanted_ to say, and he couldn’t figure out how to separate the two.

“What, right now?”

Michael offered him a playful shrug. “You got anything else to do for the rest of the day? Come on, let me teach you how to disarm someone. You can’t convince Geoff to let you in the crew if you’re bleeding out on the goddamn sidewalk.” He picked the knife up from the floor and tilted his head in invitation, reading the reluctance on Ray’s face like he’d written the book himself. “Don’t be a busta, Ray. You think you can learn from just fucking _watching_?”

Ray hesitated only slightly before accepting, and he spent the next three hours at Michael’s side, learning extremely brutal and efficient techniques for disarming an opponent.The third time that Ray ended up on the floor, breathing heavily and staring up at a self-satisfied Michael, he’d had the nerve to ask exactly how Michael was self-taught, since his methods clearly weren't street fighting.

“I've had some... unorthodox practice,” Michael had offered, by way of explanation. “And if you want more information than that, you’ll have to earn it. Disarm me.”

Ray prided himself on being a quick learner, and mastering a skill usually took him half the time it would take his peers, but Michael’s training was ruthless, and he offered Ray no sense of leniency or watered down defenses. He was perfectly poised at all times, and Ray ended up on the floor with aching shoulders countless of times before he got his first hit.

“Good,” Michael breathed, slightly out of breath. Ray’s foot had made contact with the inside of Michael’s leg in a haphazard attempt to throw off Michael’s balance. Michael had countered easily, hardly affected, and twisted Ray’s body around until he was on his knees with the switchblade pressing against the back of his neck. Ray gritted his teeth at the floor, frustrated and slightly ashamed, but Michael seemed pleased nonetheless and helped Ray to his feet. “Good start.”

“Good start hell, I barely touched you!” Ray lamented irritably, trying to ignore his throbbing kneecaps.

“You’re too worried you’re going to hurt me,” Michael chastised. “You aren’t using the full force of your body and you’re hesitating. And after you just gave me that big boy speech about how you swore you wouldn’t.”

Ray put his hands on his knees, trying to will the shakes from his body. He was bruised, exhausted, and aggravated, and being in close contact to Michael’s body as he was tossed, flipped, and _pressed_ wasn’t exactly discouraging to his libido. “I said I wouldn’t hesitate for _them_ , not you. Not really trying to crack your hands open, man, they’re fucked enough.”

Michael glanced down at his fingers as if seeing them for the first time. “Yeah, alright, fair. But you still need to stop worrying about whether you’ll go too far -- I can’t teach you if you aren’t willing to put your full effort into it. Just follow my moves and don’t think so much. I’ve been doing this shit almost my whole life, and the only way you’re going to actually injure me is if I _let_ you.”

Ray rubbed the back of his neck, shooting Michael the most unimpressed expression he could muster. “You've got your own area code for your ego, or…?”

Michael widened his stance, holding out his arms in invitation. “Come knock me down a peg then, ‘daddy’s boy’.”

After that, Ray really did fucking try. He threw his whole body into his hits, ferociously trying to avoid Michael’s counters and regain his balance when he was knocked back. His muscles were on fire and every part of his body cried out for a rest, a break from Michael’s well-placed grips and kicks that had him barreling towards exhaustion. He couldn’t land a single hit on him, but when Michael flipped the script and imitated an everyman-thug with a pistol grinding into Ray’s skull, Ray was able to disarm him almost every single time.

The sky was beginning to darken by the time they called it quits, throwing themselves across opposite couches with the mutual guarantee that they’d take a short nap and rouse themselves in thirty for the quest to find some sort of dinner. It was comfortable, lying there in silence with someone who shared the same exhaustion, the same thoughts and worries and elations. Ray found himself wondering who had shared these same experiences with Michael; who had taught him the things he knew, or who he may have learned them alongside of; he wondered how many people had passed out on this same couch, breathing in the same fabrics and colors and questions.

He found himself wondering if Michael had loved any of those people. And which of them may have loved him in return.

 

///

  


The sky was fully dark by the time Ray woke, and the world around him was quick on informing him that he had slept way past the allotted thirty minutes. He sat up instantly, peering through the darkness of the penthouse to find Michael’s body rising and falling in the throes of a deep, well-earned sleep. The room was shrouded in night, the blinking reminders of the city below them offering Ray his only light, peering in through the windows like tiny spotlights, searching for the man that had freed himself from its shackles.

His stomach grumbled loudly, and he realized his hunger had woken him, along with his pressing need to empty his bladder. He sat up slowly, worried that even the slightest movement would wake the man sleeping on the couch across from him, and made his way to the bathroom, his hands against the walls to help guide him. His empty stomach made another plea for attention as he washed his hands afterwards, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep without eating. If he even needed to, since it could easily be close to dawn. He didn’t have a phone anymore, and there was no way to tell the time other than trying to sneak a peek at Michael’s phone where it lay charging on the counter.

Ray laughed quietly to himself. That was a death sentence, easily.

He knew he’d have to wake Michael regardless, because puttering around in another man’s house when he was technically supposed to be chained up would be among Ray’s top five mistakes of his life, right underneath the whole ‘snooping through Michael’s phone while he slept’ thing.

It seemed simple until he was actually standing next to Michael’s body on the couch, lights drifting in to highlight all of Michael’s imperfect perfections. The scars across his arms, the stretch of bruised skin where his shirt rode up in sleep, the stiff, curled fingers that had seen years of abuse and therapy.

“Michael,” he tried lightly, reaching out to tap Michael’s shoulder. “Hey, Michael--”

Ray barely had a moment to back up before he was staring down the barrel of Michael’s Springfield only seconds after his voice had faltered. It was less than an inch away from his face, aimed between his eyes, and he was _really_ happy he’d already emptied his bladder as terror shot through him like liquid flames.

Michael was sitting up straight, the darkness of the room casting all the wrong shadows across the face Ray had come to trust, casing his expression into something sinister and derelict, like a husk devoid of soul. His eyes bled hatred and a fiery distemper as he stared Ray down.

One heartbeat later though, and the expression softened. The gun lowered. Ray breathed.

“Fuck, dude.”

“Well don’t sneak up on me,” Michael reasoned, flipping the safety back on and throwing himself back across the couch like he hadn’t just given Ray a glimpse of that horrid, inner turmoil. “Man, do you know how pissed I’d be if I had to redo these floors again because your dumbass got brain matter all over them?”

“How is this my fault?” Ray argued, placing a hand to his chest to try and steady his heartbeat. “How am I supposed to wake you up then, throw rolled up newspaper at you from halfway across the fucking room?”

Michael threw one arm over his eyes, using the other hand to flip Ray off. “First, don’t worry about how to wake me up, because I never want you to fucking do it _ever_ again. Second, if the reason you decided to wake me in the first place is anything less than ‘I think I'm dying,’ I might shoot you anyway.”

“I’m hungry,” Ray blurted out, and Michael pulled his arm away to stare Ray dead in the eyes.

“Okay,” he muttered, sitting up and clicking the safety back off on his pistol.

“ _Shit_ , Michael, no -- I just didn’t want to go through your kitchen without getting your okay. I didn’t -- _I swear to god_ , Michael, if you shoot me I won’t talk to you for like, _months.”_

Michael groaned irritably and rubbed his hands furiously over his eyes, the Springfield still held between them like a child’s toy. “Fucking _Christ._ It’s like, four in the goddamn morning Ray, I can’t tell you how much I don’t want to put up with your shit.”

“I’ll make you a grilled cheese?” Ray offered, shrugging slightly and still looking warily at Michael’s pistol, which yeah, he apparently _did_ sleep with.

Michael stared at him. It was hard to make out his expression in the darkness, but it felt almost...fond. “You’ll...grill me a cheese? As a fucking apology, or...?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’d make something better but I’m basically like, the Sims level one cook -- grilled cheese and fruit salad, you know?”

“Grilled cheese was level two.”

“Oh. Sweet, I leveled up then!”

“Christ. Okay. There should be shit in there for that, just hurry up. I’m starving.”

Ray, relieved, turned towards the kitchen. “Would you prefer it served on a golden platter? Should I put on my best suit and run your errands as well?”

He opened the fridge, giving its meager contents a once-over before grabbing the container of butter and several slices of pre-packaged cheese. He could hear Michael snort in laughter from the main room as he pulled down a half-gone loaf of bread.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to you in a maid’s outfit.”

Ray’s heart skipped a beat, because apparently he was a fucking _idiot,_ but he played along, trying to figure out how much of that statement was friendly ribbing and how much was blatant, awkward flirtation.

_Probably none. Definitely none, Ray, don’t even consider it._

“Little gay, man. What would Geoff say if he heard about your antics?”

“Who the fuck do you think I’d get the outfit from? I told you man, their house is scary.”

Michael brightened up considerably once he scarfed down the slapdash grilled cheese Ray had made, and instead of returning to sleep, they loaded up Black Ops and had a furious battle over the validity of assisted kills and whether points or K/D was a better display of prowess.

Hours passed like this, until the faint dawn of the rising sun became bright, mid-morning light, pouring through Michael’s windows and amplifying their laughter as they sat on the couch together in yesterday’s clothes, still slightly hungover, still nervous for the evening. But for those hours, Ray forgot Los Santos. He forgot Vivian and her kidnapper, forgot his ransacked apartment, forgot his trigger finger and all of the anomalies that came with it.

For the first time, he finally felt like he had found what he left New York for.

  


///

  


Ray was in the passenger seat, his sweaty palms gripped tightly around his 1911. Michael was flying past cars, and the lights from the other lanes were fleeting and bright as Ray tried to tie his heartbeat to them, willing himself to calm down. Get a grip.

“Goddamnit Ray, relax.”

Ray’s fingers tightened. His bulletproof vest was constricting and hefty, amplifying his forcibly steadied breathing. There was a strap fastened to the waistline of his pants that was carrying two extra mags. They were heavier than he remembered them being earlier. He was centering his weight on them and they centered back, one abyss trying to outdo another.

“I’m fine.”

He could feel Michael’s eyes on him, shifting from the road to the focused mask Ray was wearing like the salt stains of the ocean at their side, but he didn’t pursue it. Ray would never admit to lying, and Michael knew his place.

They followed behind Geoff’s car in a diligent silence that was broken only by the horns of distressed drivers and the passing drift of a dangerously close call. Planning was over. Gear was distributed, guns were loaded, and instructions were clean-cut and precise, ringing around in Ray’s head and battling for the forerunner position against his crippling disbelief.

This was happening.

Geoff stopped in a desolate wash outside of the Sandy Shores tourism sign, stepping out in his dark suit that matched the night behind him as Michael braked and silenced his Adder. Ray pulled himself from the passenger seat like velcro, his head full of nothing but wavering determination and shameful reconsiderations. Geoff motioned towards the abandoned hotel two blocks away, and they started their trek, carefully staying out of range from the gas station that had ‘CLOSED’ prominently displayed across the pumps.

The door creaked when they opened it, and Geoff winced. Mildew covered the walls and blankets littered the floor, a temporary housing for methed up junkies who’d lost their way in the world. One of the sleeping bags stirred, a quiet, curious mumble coming from a mess of hair and a toothless mouth before the body stiffened and fell back, Geoff’s silenced pistol having made quick work of the smoothie that was now the bum’s brain.

Startlingly, it calmed Ray.

He was an amateur, but the two men next to him were not. He was in good hands.

He resolved to pick apart exactly how fucked that was later, once this mission was over, and he could breath again.

“We’re holding up on the second to top floor,” Geoff said quietly. “Clear the rooms as you go and look for squatters.”

Geoff stayed behind to pick through the remaining sleeping bags, and Ray heard another muffled shot slice through the air behind him as he followed Michael up the creaking wood stairs. The carpet was torn away, the railing scavenged, and a heavy sense of desolation hung over the tattered remains of what was once a premier resort.

Michael cleared the rooms swiftly and silently, and Ray followed the directions he had been given back at base. Watch Michael’s back, let him move first, provide him with cover. It was the simplest of jobs they could give him, but Ray felt the weight of responsibility pressing against his throat, cutting off his breath.

They cleared two floors before Michael put his hand on Ray’s shoulder, steadying him, linking him to the tangible world around them before he pulled away.

“Ray. Focus.”

That simple instruction cracked the dam of Ray’s wavering confidence, and words stumbled from his lips before he could consider the shame they would bring.

“I’m going to die--”

“You’re fucking not,” Michael hissed, gun held between both hands and at the ready. Ray was mimicking him, though he had no recollection of doing so. Instinct, maybe. It was dark in the hallway, but he could see the glint of Michael’s eyes, filled to the brim with a confidence that Ray wanted to claim. A well deserved self-awareness and a shadowed spark of danger that Ray needed to feed from, to draw into him.

The disbelief must have shown like a beacon of his face, because the movement was quick and resolute. Ray took in a startled gasp of air when Michael fisted his shirt around the collar and leaned in, and where Ray had become accustomed to empathy, Michael gave him nothing but a furious whispered warning wrapped neatly around all the things Ray needed to hear.  “You’ve got the makings for a goddamn kingpin with that fucking pistol in your hands, so do _not_ do this shit now. You're fucking better than this, you hear me?”

“...Yeah, man. I hear you.”

Michael released his shirt, giving his shoulder a firm solidifying grip before he turned and moved towards the next level where they were due to be stationed. Ray followed him, counting the moments it had taken to even his breathing and heartrate, and wondering how the man he trailed behind had known exactly what it took to master Ray’s nerves.

They cleared the floor and Geoff joined them, setting up in a suite with a large bay window that directly faced the desolate gas station. The night was quiet, and gunshots were distant and stiff. They could see figures moving around inside the dimly lit store, but the awning covered any distinctive features and they were left to decipher one pair of legs from another.

“Looks like he’s only got the two guards,” Geoff muttered, peering through the grime on the window as he lay prone on the ground between Ray and Michael. “Can’t rule out someone being in the back though, so don’t get cocky and watch your six. If we can keep Lakshay alive it’s preferable, because I don’t want to waste the C4 if we don’t have to. Shit’s expensive.”

“I can tell you’re very frugal with your money, Geoff. Your brand new yacht was only, what, two hundred feet? Two ten?”

“Fuck you, Michael. Just because I wouldn’t let you bang my bartender you’re going to act like it was a huge waste of money?”

“I mean, _you_ wouldn’t let me, but she--”

“Someone's coming out,” Ray interrupted, his attention focused solely on the doors of the station as a tall, lanky man wandered out to have a smoke, eyes alert and peering into the darkness.

Geoff glanced down. “Yeah, that’s the first guard. Take a good look, Narvaez, he’s your target.”

There was a crisp sound of static, and immediately all of them quieted, placing their fingers to their earpieces.

“It’s me,” came Jack’s voice, sounding a little out of breath. “Enrique showed up early, and the sitter let him right into the fucking house. She was in on it.”

“Son of a whore,” Geoff mumbled back, switching his mic on. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Just happened,” Jack explained. “Everything is good though. Ryan barged in after them and I snuck in the back and got the girl. She’s here with me. Ryan’s gutting Enrique as we speak. Sorry, Vivian--put your hands over your ears, honey.”

“And the bitch?”

Jack hesitated slightly, before-- “Ryan has her. Said something about making an example. I don’t want to repeat--”

“It’s fine,” Geoff cut him off, obviously wary on how much he wanted Vivian to hear. “Everything is calm here still, so we should get the jump on them. Jack, call the cops for Vivian and leave her at a neighbors. Make sure Ryan is out of there before the pigs get close--”

“Goeff, we’ve got a problem--” Gavin’s voice interrupted. “I’m tracing Lakshay’s phone right now, and he’s been trying to call Enrique. I’d give him five more minutes before he’s spooked enough to run, since Enrique probably doesn’t have hands left to answer it. They've cut their security feed as well. Paranoia. So you lads will be flying blind.”

Ray withheld a shudder and Geoff cursed quietly. “Fuck, alright. Good thing we got here ahead of schedule, I guess. Let’s go, boys.”

Geoff pushed off of the ground, crunching over the broken glass of a coffee table, and Ray nearly tripped in his haste to follow. He was on the verge of panicking, he knew, but his only sensible thought was _stick close_ and he was absolutely fucking terrified of being left alone.

“Hey.” Michael’s hands were warm on his cheeks, focusing him, but Ray could barely string his thoughts together over the way his vision was titled and his chest had gone tight. Michael bumped his forehead into Ray's gently, reminiscent of the calm that had graced them only days before, and the world stiffened back into a crisp resolution as he began to focus on the eyes in front of him. “You’ve got this man. You can do this.” He paused, a split second of consideration while he read all the things imprinted into Ray’s expression that would never pass from Ray’s lips. “I’ve got you, okay? You don’t need me, but I’ve got you all the same. Let’s fucking do this, yeah?”

The strings cutting into his heart were loosened as he met Michael’s eyes, and he nodded. His breathing came easier. All fucking bullshit aside, he _believed_ Michael. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Approximately forty two seconds later and he was pressed against the wall outside of the station, watching Geoff across the beam of fluorescent lighting that poured from glass doors. Michael was beside him, pistol at the ready with his finger already on the trigger. The four fingers Geoff held up became three. Two. One.

They moved.

Ray saw Lakshay first, heard his faltering words of “Something’s gone wrong,” before fear widened the darker man’s eyes as three men barged through the glass doors, donned in bulletproof vests and guns held high. Someone yelled, and Ray cursed himself for the split second distraction Lakshay had given him and turned to scan for his target.

He found him immediately, the taller of the guards, standing by the register with a pack of gum held in his hand, looking startled as he frantically reached for the Uzi strapped across his shoulder. Ray struggled to regain himself. He took aim.

But he was too late. Two shots were fired in perfect precision, Lakshay was yelling, and Ray watched in rapt horror and fascination as one of the bullets lodged into his target’s neck, just below his ear, and Ray could swear that he heard the shattering of bone over the splatter of blood as the man’s eyes went glassy and he fell sideways from the force of the impact. He looked to his left and saw Michael’s target stumble backward, his hands trying to hold in the blood from a shot straight through his sternum. Michael stood only feet away, gun raised and eyes narrowed, sending two more rounds directly after the first until the body fell against a drink display, sending cans crashing and rolling around their feet.

As his mind struggled to comprehend the past five seconds, Ray’s vision came to a stop on Geoff, who was lowering his gun from Ray’s target and starring Ray down, disappointment and anger etched across the lines in his face.

“Eyes on your fucking target, Narvaez.”

“Fuck,” Ray cursed, feeling anger and embarrassment boil through him, torching his nerves from the inside out. He didn’t dare chance another look at Michael. He had fucked up. He’d let his eyes linger too long on Lakshay and Geoff had taken out the threat for him, leaving Ray standing there like a fool with his gun raised at a dead body. “God _fucking_ damnit.”

“Stand up, get where we can fucking see you!” Michael cursed, pistol still held at eye level as he sidestepped around toppled cans, scanning down the aisles. “Come on, you fuck. It’s over.”

There was a scuff of sneakers on linoleum, a choked sob, and a mousy, timid man rose slowly from the soda machines with his hands over his head.

“Please, please don’t kill me. Take whatever you want, just don’t kill me!”

The man was visibly shaking, but Michael remained unfazed, motioning with the barrel of his Springfield for Lakshay to step out and into the open. Geoff was busy prying the guns and ammunition from the dead men on the floor, leaving Michael to handle the situation. Still feeling the heat of humiliation, Ray moved away from the center of the room and took refuge against the far wall, hoping and praying that he hadn’t just fucked his chances to be a part of the crew.

“I’m going to need everything you’ve got in that safe of yours, buddy,” Michael stated calmly, keeping his sight trained to Lakshay as the man stumbled his way down the aisle. “And try not to bullshit me. I know it’s here, and I’d prefer to avoid using these military-grade explosives if I can help it. Unless you’d like your guts to become my newest high velocity impact spatter?”

Lakshay’s eyes widened. “No! Please, no!” He paused, chest heaving in the effort to keep his body functioning in spite of his terror. “Just… you’ll let me go, right? Once I open it?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I swear on my fucking honor that you’ll make it out of here alive. Now hurry the fuck up.”

Lakshay stumbled over himself in his haste to get to safe beneath the register, and Michael kept his eyes trained to him, letting his gaze flick over to Geoff only once, some voiceless affirmation of things being under control, because Geoff only nodded, pocketing the extra ammo as well as a bag of Skittles. Ray kept his fingers wrapped closely around his pistol, still reeling from his tactical error, frantically trying to determine how he could undo the mistake he had made.

It took only half a minute for Lakshay to stuff the thick bundles of cash into a plastic bag, placing it on the counter with shaking, sweaty hands.

“There. That’s everything. Now, you’ll let me go, right? You gave me your word.”

Michael tilted his head in thought. “Lakshay, right? Can I call you Lakshay?” The man behind the counter nodded belatedly, raising his hands beside his head in surrender. “Alright, Lakshay, as a child trafficker and illegal business owner, would you consider yourself a man of honor?”

Lakshay froze, unable to answer, and Michael grinned. “Yeah, I thought not. And me? Would you consider me a man of honor?” Lakshay, again, had no answer, but his shaking increased and Ray could see tears streaming down his cheeks. Michael’s grin widened. “Funny thing about that -- about honor. You have to have it to swear by it.”

Ray caught the glimpse of realization in Lakshay’s eyes before Michael’s silenced Springfield fired. Lakshay jerked backwards from the force of the bullet, the surprise still cemented in his face as a small rivulet of blood ran down the bridge of his nose. He fell backwards and hit the wall behind him before toppling to the ground, eyes wide and blank as blood dripped from his lashes.

The following seconds were the longest of Ray’s life.

Michael moved forward to grab the bag of cash on the counter, still smirking, completely in his element. Geoff was placing his finger to the earpiece, asking Gavin if he had an ETA for Martin, and they were both turned away from the only entrance, too caught up in their own success to access the danger they were in.

Movement outside the window sent Ray into immediate shock and panic; his voice was caught his throat, and his body stood frozen to the spot as a dark shadow came closer to the light, providing an outline. It was a man, moving quickly towards the door and taking advantage of the sudden lull, his handgun zero’d in on Michael’s body and the murderous intent written plain as day from his stance and the scowl across his face.

Ray recognized the face from Martin’s dossier.

Geoff would never turn in time, Michael would be too confused to dodge the shot, and Ray couldn’t waste the precious seconds it would take to warn them. He could feel each pulse of blood through his veins, slower than it should have been, and where there had been only fear and trepidation, he was suddenly focused. The world around him became gray matter, nothing but obstacles, weapons, and the measurable distance from Martin to Michael.

That indescribable instinct took over, the same one he had felt winding through his system when Victor had been deemed a threat and Michael stood closest, the same one that had flooded his brain when Bruce was aiming a bullet straight for Michael’s skull. The overwhelming urge to protect sung from his very veins, and before he could second-guess himself, before he could even _remember_ his terror, he raised his 1911 and fired three shots directly into Martin’s neck, his cheekbone, and the edge of his forehead.

Martin's body was on the ground before Geoff and Michael even realized he was there. They both looked from the bleeding mess by the door to Ray, who was standing there, somehow composed and sturdy and _alive_ , their eyes brimming with questions and disbelief.

“I don’t think you have to worry about Martin’s ETA,” Ray said quickly, if only to break the silence of their stares.

“Yeah, no shit!” Michael said, moving over to prod Martin’s body with his foot. “Dude, he’s barely got a head left! That was fucking incredible!”

“How the fuck did you see him?” Geoff asked, turning on Ray. “And how in God’s name did you bring him down so fast when you were a deer in the headlights with the fucking guard over there?”

Ray faltered. The world was lurching back into view again, and it was jarring. His reasons seemed so simple, so absolute, but voicing them was another matter. “You guys were turned away. You wouldn’t have had time… He was aiming straight for Michael and--”

Geoff cut him off with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, fucking great. Hey, Michael, apparently if we want fucking numbnuts here to shoot straight, we just need to put you in the firing line.”

Michael grinned at Ray, retreating to wrap his hand around the bag of cash. “Ray, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Fuck off,” Ray muttered, watching Geoff shake the pistol from Martin’s hand and fish the cell phone from his pocket before moving towards the exit. “Second time I’ve saved your life though, keep that in mind.”

“True,” Michael considered, stepping on Martin’s body as he and Ray made their way out of the front doors, hot on Geoff’s heels. “You might not even have to pay me for that blowjob now.”

Ray was never so thankful for the cover of darkness as he felt heat flush up his neck. He gave a weak chuckle as a response to avoid looking at Michael, but even in his peripherals he could see the satisfied smirk that crossed the redhead’s face as they made their way quickly back to their vehicles.

Geoff put his hand to his earpiece. “We’re all good here boys. Now let’s get back and have ourselves a good old fashioned money-fight.” Geoff looked back at Ray for a moment, studying him with the same knowing glare that Ray's father had always done, like he knew more than Ray was admitting. “Except Narvaez. He and I are going to have a chat.”

  



	14. 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your patience for romance is astounding, you guys. Thanks for sticking around during the character build, and I can't tell you how much I've loved and appreciated all of your comments. The rating is going to be bumped up to explicit in the coming chapters, and I'll allow you to deduce what that means on your own.

Ray found himself seated back in the same wooden chair next to the same covered table, staring at the small stain of blood he had left on the concrete weeks ago. He held his hands clasped in front of him instead of tied behind his back this time though, and that small, yet significant alteration was enough to relay to him how much things had changed in the span of a single month.

He could barely identify with the Ray that had been bound and questioned. And the more that he learned, discovered, and _lived,_ the less he felt he needed to.

Geoff took a seat in front of him, eyes set into stone as he sipped gingerly on his glass of high-end scotch. “We should talk.”

Ray cleared his throat. It was too loud in the hollow emptiness of the room, echoing between the concrete walls. “I appreciate your lack of switchblade this time, Geoff. I feel like this is a huge step in our relationship.”

Geoff didn’t miss a beat, never one to be caught up in Ray’s agonizing failsafe of sarcasm. “And your relationship with Michael? What kind of steps has that taken?”

“Well, we’ve adopted a puppy together, and I’m meeting his parents next Thursday for dinner. I guess you can say it’s pretty serious.”

“Narvaez, I’m only going to say this once. I have no qualms about backhanding you across the side of your fucking head with my tumbler right now, and the only thing I would regret would be wasting the alcohol that would seep into the wounds of your glass-embedded face.”

Ray stared at Geoff, who only stared back, _begging_ Ray for a challenge. Waiting for that happy moment when he’d get to prove just exactly how serious he was. Ray averted his eyes and sighed, defeated.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, man--”

“You’re going to claim that you don’t know what I’m talking about, right?” Geoff interrupted him with petulant roll of his eyes. “That I’m imagining all the things I’ve been seeing? Come on, Narvaez. You about float across the goddamn floor when Michael walks into the room, and you’re not exactly coy about hiding those fucking looks you give him. Now, if this was just about getting your dick down his throat--”

Ray blanched and kept his eyes trained to Geoff’s shoes.

“--I could live with that. But that’s not it, is it? That’s not nearly it.”

“It’s not anything,” Ray snapped, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. He could deal with house arrest, he could deal with being ordered around, and hell, he could even deal with being tied up if they felt it necessary, but he was not prepared to be lectured like a wayward child at twenty-four years old.

Geoff’s eyes snapped to meet his when he heard the beginnings of anger wafting through Ray’s voice. He closed in on it like a predator identifies the weakest of the herd, and Ray realized far too late that Geoff had been pushing for that very reaction.

“From lack of want, or from lack of trying?”

Ray considered him, and laid out the options. He could deny the attraction, deny the want and curiosity that pulled the strings in his heart every moment that Michael turned, allowing Ray an unbridled moment to just _watch._ But Geoff was clever and Ray was well aware that lying would prove to be nothing but a fruitless endeavor that wouldn’t even manage to buy him the time to change his behavior around Michael to something more appropriate.

He thought back to his original motto, _don’t fuck with them, they won’t fuck with you,_ and wondered if honesty really could be the golden rule. Despite Geoff’s ruthless exterior, Ray had seen the cautious and considerate way he treated his crew, and there was the inkling of a promise that, if Ray were to come clean, his secret would stay just that.

“From lack of trying,” Ray finally admitted, keeping eye contact with Geoff for as long as he was able. “I’m not going to lie, I want--”

He cut himself off, swallowing. What did he want?

Several flashes sped through his mind as he tried to pinpoint exactly where the desire had developed. There was Michael, pistol in hand as he fired into the guard’s chest, leather stretched across his arms at the pull of muscle; Michael, tossing Ray a soda as they delved into hour four of shitty arcade games; Michael, his head pressed against Ray’s, assurances pouring from his lips like he’d been programmed to know exactly what Ray needed to hear. City drives. Target practice. Bandaging Michael’s body. Pulling that shirt off of Michael himself, pressing him against the door--

Ray faltered, and Geoff sighed at his silence.

“Look, normally it’s none of my business, but--”

“But you’re going to shove your opinion in there anyway, right?”

Geoff looked up, slightly started and entirely unamused, but Ray powered through. He was still trying to work out how he felt, _why_ he felt it, and Geoff’s insatiable need for a finalized answer was pushing for things Ray wasn’t ready to give.

“Why do you think you’re Michael’s keeper?” Ray spat, frustrated. “He’s twenty-six years old. He doesn’t need you looking out for him, and whatever he wants, or doesn’t, is none of your goddamn business.”

Geoff stayed quiet for only a moment before he stood, and his eyes had lost that encouraging note of empathy, of an open mind and a desire to understand. There was nothing there now but a cold disposition, fueled by Ray’s insubordination and acute attitude adjustments.

“This may come as a shock to you, Narvaez, but I am _everyone’s_ keeper. Every single man in this building answers to me, and no one else. I am their confidant, their livelihood, and their only lifeline to sanity after some of the shit they’ve done.” Geoff’s eyes suddenly blazed with anger. “And you can take this as a warning, or as a simple reminder that I’ve been here for him much, _much_ longer than you have, and that you have _no_ fucking say in what my business is. But if I have to drag Michael back to my home, bleeding and overdosed and an inch away from death because of another backfired relationship, I will _fucking end you_.”

With that startling declaration, Geoff downed his drink and left, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving Ray to wallow in the shattered remains his own foolish determination.

There was something that cut deeper than Geoff’s humiliation though, deeper than the shame of deserving the backlash, and it was the knowledge that, despite everything, he still didn’t truly know Michael, not the way Geoff did. Not the way the crew did.

How could he compare to that?

  


///

 

Two months passed in a frantic, hectic blur. Ray spent upwards of fifteen hours a day with the crew, being passed from person to person like a struggling human blueprint for a half-crazed training schedule. Everyone was so keen to give their opinion on how to properly hotwire a car, or throw off a cop, or maintain a rifle, that by the end of every day Ray would be reeling from the simple amazement that such an alarmingly different group of people could work so well together.

Jack was always the first to greet him in the mornings when he’d arrive at Michael’s side, a water or red bull clutched in his hands as he tried to rid the weariness from his eyes. He’d sit Ray down at his monitors and immediately begin quizzing him on the patrols in the city, where traffic was likely to start backing up, or which building was located on the corner of 23rd and Custer. He’d even mentioned something about taking Ray out on a flight simulator, but Geoff’s angry glare had deterred any future prospects.

Gavin, on the other hand, was indiscriminately passionate about his talents, though entirely reluctant to share any knowledge with Ray. Often times, when Gavin managed to pull him from Jack’s eager clutches, it usually amounted to nothing more than hours of teasing and pestering and trying to convince Ray to take a trip into the city with him.

Once the novelty of Ray’s presence had died down though, Gavin’s focus became more single-minded, and the hours of laughter at Ray’s expense soon became hours of pouring over dossiers, pointing out the gang leaders as well as any notable or affluent person that still resided in Los Santos.

“Jesus Christ, is this _Ryan’s_ file?”

“Yeah. Don’t read that before lunch, lad.”

“'Confirmed kills'… is this a typo?”

Gavin leaned over, running his eyes down the dossier until he found the offending, triple-digit number. “Nope!”

Ray closed the file immediately, happier not knowing.

By the end of a day spent with Gavin, Ray would be no closer in discovering the mysteries of the man’s hacking and brokering skills, but he _would_ end up tossing and turning all night as his brain failed to put a stop to the influx of names and associated crimes to be able to relax.

Surprisingly, Ryan showed a keen interest in helping Ray acclimate. What the man lacked in shooting skills he made up for in a barrage of knowledge and a decent repertoire of handling knives and melee weapons. Days were lost upstairs at the range as Ray was taught how to accurately throw a blade, how to talk and charm his way out of a hostage situation (“Could have used that a few months ago, Ryan.” “Like it would have worked on me. Shut up and pay attention.”), and would quiz him on scenarios and obstacles to hone his quick thinking and reflexes.

“You didn’t keep your eyes on the balcony. Now I’m dead. You didn’t count the shots, they’ve fooled you, and now Michael is dead. Your two points of coverage are bleeding out on the floor, what do you do?”

“Um. Cry like a bitch and wait for death?”

“Basically. Think faster next time.”

On the odd occasion Geoff would call him over, it was for questioning. He’d sit Ray down and barrage him with an uncomfortable pop quiz of “what do you want from our establishment” inquiries that were straight out of a job application from Burger Shot. Ray couldn’t tell if he was being patronized, but made an effort to curb his sarcasm and sass in case Geoff was actually conducting an honest to god interview.

After a few twenty minute sessions with Geoff, the questions began hitting a little close to home. Was his family concerned about him? Would they come looking for him if he cut ties? Would he consider relocating them? Could he maintain composure in a stressful situation involving his loved ones?

Ray raised his eyebrow at that, hoping Geoff would elaborate. When Geoff only stared back, twirling slightly in this chair, Ray gave in.

“Look, I doubt my family is going to be an issue. We’re not close, and anyone who bothers to dig up that information would suspect as much.”

“What about a girlfriend? A boyfriend? An ex that you may still be close with that can be used against you?”

Ray shook his head. “No.”

“And in the event that you do become close to someone, would you be able to do your job properly, function as a unit, and follow my orders if that person were to be placed in a dangerous scenario? If they were to be, as an example, used as bait to get to you, or as personal revenge for your actions against their friends, loved ones, or associates, would you be able to maintain your composure?”

He met Geoff’s eyes, and there was that same understanding, the same knowledge of the inner mechanisms of Ray’s mind that Geoff had somehow deduced in their limited company. It was a simple question, but the underlying inquires that Geoff was leveling him with were the loudest, despite being unspoken.

 _Michael_.

“No,” he answered finally. “No, I don’t think I would. I would work with the crew in a joint effort to get that person out, but… I can’t guarantee I would be composed. I would be reckless. I wouldn’t hesitate, and I wouldn’t regret it, even if it got me kicked the fuck out.”

Geoff studied him for a moment, then nodded, closing his notebook. “Good answer. We’re done for the day, Narvaez. Get out.”

By far though, his favorite moments were with Michael. Despite his rapidly evolving relationships with the crew, his time with Michael was always enveloped with a sense of familiarity he’d never felt outside of his own home. He could relax. He didn’t feel like he was being quizzed, or evaluated, or spun in circles on a pedestal to have his worth measured in kill counts or leverage. Here, he felt at peace.

But the days with Michael were easily his hardest, and he’d fall across the couch every night covered in bruises and welts that would ache down to his bones in the morning. Michael was determined that he know how to defend himself, that he’d be able to duck a knife and disarm an attacker if a situation arose, and the training was ruthless. When they weren't sparring, they spent a good chunk of their time on the range, practicing on moving targets indoors before driving out into the country to hone Ray’s skill as a sniper, something they apparently desperately lacked as a crew.

“Another contact, you’re on fucking fire today,” Michael smiled, watching the dust cloud from Ray’s toppled target fade into the wind. “That board was only two feet across, I never thought in a million years you’d hit that shit.”

“What the fuck did you put it up for, then?” Ray asked, pulling back the bolt and taking aim again.

“Just to be an ass. I wanted to see you get frustrated.”

“Kinky.”

“Keep smiling, tomorrow’s will only be a foot wide. Same width as a head, if you get my drift.”

Ray only smiled.

Usually, they wouldn’t get back to the penthouse until midnight and Ray would pass out on the couch almost immediately, wrought with exhaustion. Once in awhile though, he’d only close his eyes, forcing himself to stay awake just for a minute longer. Just to listen. He listened to Michael shrugging off his jacket. Listened to the keys thrown on the table, like always. He’d listen to the soft sigh as Michael stretched out the pains in his body and retrieved a drink from the fridge. Ray would listen as Michael hovered by the kitchen, feeling the man’s eyes on him, and he knew that during those brief, sacred moments, he’d sell his soul for a translation of what they meant.

Colder nights, when it stormed outside and rain pounded against the window, he’d wake to blankets draped haphazardly across his body, like someone had been torn between not caring, and caring too much.

And some nights, it wasn’t the long, studious days that kept him up, wide eyed and wondering. It was _those_ moments, when the only thing that seemed to matter was the staircase that separated him from the man he was dying to understand.

  


///

 

Around three months in, Michael started cooking when he had the energy, and Ray was woken up at least once a week to the smells of an amateur breakfast before the sun even rose.

“Dude, are you making pancakes?”

“Ray, please, your presence is upsetting my chef-like concentration.”

Ray ignored him and shuffled his way further into the kitchen, reaching out for the plate of cooling hot stacks with a delirious hunger. “Come on, gimme one.”

Michael slapped his hand with the still-hot spatula and Ray cursed in pain, drawing back. Michael smirked in response to Ray's glowering, still dressed in an old shirt and basketball shorts, his hair puffed out and sticking up at odd angles.

“No. You can fucking wait. Also, you should try not to gorge yourself.”

“What? Why not?” Ray pouted, rubbing at the red spatula marks on his fingers.

“You’re with me today, and you’re going to figuratively earn your green belt in Krav Maga, so I don’t want you puking on me.” He paused, contemplating. “Also, uh, remind me to pick up some heating pads when we’re out. You’re going to need them.”

“Goddamnit.”

 

///

 

_Four months in._

“You got this, Ray.”

Michael’s voice in his ear flowed through him like liquor in coffee, serene but powerful, hidden beneath a playful decoy that wrought nothing but tremors across Ray’s nerves. The knowledge that Michael was watching him, flat on a ledge with asphalt digging into his freckled knees rendered him down to core qualities and adrenaline. Focus. Determination. Situational awareness.

This was his first solo job, and he was aiming to surpass expectations.

His target was in a suite across the street from the room Ray had rented under a false name and a hidden face. Michael was three floors above, grinding his elbows into the debris on the roof as lookout, as a monitor, a position he insisted on taking and one Ray was internally grateful for.

For the first time, he was alone at the window, waiting to send a bullet into Timothy Parker, a corrupt judge with over a dozen misconduct claims under his belt. His wallet was fat with bribery and his head clean of conscience. His latest courtroom victim had offered thirty thousand for vengeance through the grapevine of criminals for hire, and word had reached Geoff, who immediately sent the best sniper he knew out for the bounty.

Ray.

Granted, his proficiency had improved by leaps and bounds out on the field with Michael’s instructions and presence fueling him for greatness, but he still doubted that his abilities would be able to trump a lack of experience. The drive to prove himself to Geoff easily won out over any doubtful attempts to question the assignments though, and he hadn't argued once during the setup, listening with rapt attention as they laid out his rundown, safe houses, and prepped for any possible emergency getaways. Ray had nodded along, focused and willing. He could do this.

He could do this.

“I know,” he muttered back to his mic, watching the window with undeterred attention. “The silence gets me though. I don’t know how much longer I can wait for this fuck to get out of the shower before I lose it. Remind me to bring some tunage next time.”

He heard Michael snigger over the mic, and to Ray’s surprise, he began singing quietly.

_“Show me how to lie, you’re getting better all the time. And turning all against the one is an art that’s hard to teach.”_

“Michael, seriously?”

He couldn’t hold back his smile, which faltered only slightly when he saw the bathroom door open through his scope as Timothy stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist. His boyish face was calm, unaware he was being watched, and Ray felt a thrilling surge of power as he tightened his fingers across the rifle.  

_“Now dance, fucker, dance, man he never had a chance. And no one ever knew, it was really only you.”_

Ray lined up his shot, trying to ignore how Michael's singing elicited a shiver up his spine. The song was too fitting for the moment, too appropriate, and far too dangerous with all the implicit little promises strung around them. like Michael was intending so much more than he let on. Ray felt like he was being sung _to_ , rather than being an audience, and he started wondering just how random the choice truly was.

_“With a thousand lies and a good disguise, hit ‘em right between the eyes, hit ‘em right between the eyes.”_

Ray inhaled. Exhaled. And then--

He did. He waited for the split second that Timothy was distracted by flipping through the channels on his television, some horrid news coverage of a botched trial in San Diego, before he pulled the trigger. The recoil shot against his shoulder, but it was a familiar pain now, nothing but a stab of numb discomfort. He heard his bullet shatter through the window, sending spiderwebs of cracks through the glass plane before making impact with the back of Timothy’s skull.

His head burst open, splattering the walls with a spray of blood as his body shot forward, moved by the momentum of the impact. Ray caught a quick glimpse of the gaping mess that was the judge’s remaining bits of skull, hair, and brain, before he toppled to the floor and Ray finally remembered to breathe.

Michael was still singing to him, the ghost of a malicious smile hidden in his voice.

_“When you walk away, nothing more to say, see the lightning in your eyes, see ‘em running for their lives.”_

Ray swallowed thickly, pulling his rifle from the window and trying to take it apart with shaking, unsteady fingers. Michael’s voice had lost that air of comedy, of playfulness. There was a subtle change, but Ray could feel it, and he tried hard not to picture Michael singing those words that were a little too close for comfort as he watched Ray perform his first assassination, his first premeditated _murder,_  from the rooftop underneath the clear, darkened sky.

It was too personal. Ray wanted him there, he _always_ wanted him there, but there was a limit to how far Michael could push the boundaries until Ray would start looking for things he was sure wouldn’t be there to greet him.

_“And now you steal away. Take him out today. Nice work you did, you’re gonna go far, kid…”_

Michael's voice died away and Ray buckled his case shut and left, unrigging the alarm for the fire escape like he’d been taught before descending quickly down the staircase. It would be hours before anyone found the body, but he couldn’t rely on the hopes that no one would notice the busted window and figure out what had happened.

Even the cops weren’t that inept.

He met Michael in the alley with a casual, knowing smile and they left together in the Adder, sending two identical texts, one to Geoff and one to Caleb, the man who had placed the hit.

 

Timothy Parker, ETD: 23:14.

Body remains in suite.

Contract fulfilled by: Brownman c/o Fake AH Crew.

 

And in the darkness of that night, Michael just drove. They passed by the penthouse, passed the food trucks and classy nightlife and lowbrow gambling joints. They passed the street signs and lights and clamor of the city, and as Michael turned and started to drive up the quiet highways of the coastline, where only the sounds of waves and tires would reach them, Ray relaxed. His fingers stopped shaking and his boiling blood cooled, leaving him with nothing but a sense of contentment that he'd never known, a satiated moment where he finally felt like he was _living_ , rather than existing. 

He looked over, watched Michael’s silhouette against the moonlight that brightened the ocean like thousands of flickering candles, and thought about speaking. He thought about breaking that beautiful, peaceful silence that they carried between them, the quiet moments that answered all the questions they’d never dare ask, but he kept his mouth shut.

There was too much to be said, and silence overruled.

 

_Slowly out of line_

_And drifting closer in your sights_

_So play it out, I’m wide awake_

_It’s a scene about me_

_There’s something in your way_

_And now someone is gonna pay_

_And if you can’t get what you want_

_Well it’s all because of me_

  


///

  


Geoff had given everyone the weekend off, likely due to the trip to Greece he was taking with his wife, though no one attempted to call him out on it. It was easily past ten, and Ray was convinced that finally being able to sleep in on Saturday morning was what heaven felt like. The only thing that roused him from the couch and all of it's comfortable glory was Michael appearing at the top of the staircase and wriggling a joint at him.

“Wazzit?” he asked sleepily, struggling to see through his sleep-addled eyesight.

“AK-47,” Michael answered, turning the paper between his fingers and inspecting it fondly.

Ray snorted. “Of course it is.”

“Hey, you going to be sassy all morning, or do you want to come down here and help me smoke this?”

And that was how, surely by the grace of god, Ray found himself sprawled across Michael’s bed with the redhead by his side, passing the joint back and forth between them as they laughed about the shitty, expensive art plastered across the walls. Sublime was playing at half volume from the tinny speakers on Michael’s phone, and they were both still sporting pajama pants like this was a ritual they'd been doing for ages.

Ray tried not to entertain the teenage excitement of sharing lip contact, but it was hard to keep his mind occupied on literally anything else when he watched Michael take a shallow drag, his eyesight melting into the ceiling as he breathed out smoke and turned to smile at Ray like he was finally content in the world.

The higher he got, the more they laughed, the more Ray wanted to kiss him. Not out of lust, or need, but a simple appreciation. He wanted to know all of Michael, everything that encompassed him, and the easiest, the simplest place to start, would be physically. 

Their conversation dissolved quietly as they lay there next to each other, falling into that contemplative and easy silence that perpetually rested between them. It was comfortable, never awkward, and so unlike all of the strained silences Ray had encountered before when his manner of speaking and dark phrasing had left people scurrying away from the register before they were goaded into replying.

“How much did you make for that job?”

Ray passed him the joint, exhaling slowly and trying to remember what fucking job Michael was on about. His head felt fuzzy and his body was surely floating a few inches off the mattress.

“Thirty thousand,” he answered, finally finding clarity. “Geoff says it’s company funds until he decides if he wants me in the crew, though. The moment I’m in, it’s mine.”

The song switched on the phone, and the beginnings of _Badfish_ made Michael smile. Ray logged it away.

“That’ll be a big chunk of money, once you get it, especially if you tack on more jobs,” Michael reasoned, once again showing no qualms about his assurance that Ray would pass initiation. “What’s on your shopping list?”

“A car, definitely,” Ray laughed, suddenly realizing that he’d be able to have his pick. “And maybe a place. Might buy a house, if I have enough.”

Michael breathed smoke like second nature, passing the nearly extinguished joint to Ray so that their fingers brushed.

“Or you could pay rent.”

Ray looked over at him, finding Michael staring at the ceiling with that stupid smile etched across his face, as though all his clandestine intentions could be summed up by a single, shit-eating smirk.

And if Ray had a choice between living alone and free in a two story house in the hills, or sleeping on a couch in Michael’s penthouse and waking up with a crick in his neck and a sore back, well, hell. He’d choose Michael every time.

“Or I could pay rent,” he agreed softly, and something that should have been a mountain was simmered down into a molehill, trampled and ignored by the hovering knowledge that both of them had always known Ray wasn’t going anywhere anyway.

The thought of the world outside of Michael’s penthouse sparked a recollection, something that he’d meant to bring to Michael’s attention days ago, but exhaustion had continuously been warping his memory.

“Hey, there’s uh, been a red SUV parked across the street down below. I’ve seen it every morning for like, two weeks. Is that something we should be worried about?”

Michael’s expression darkened, but the high coursing through his body seemed to be enough to stave off any real anger.

“Yeah. His name is Tony.” Michael took a moment to light a new joint before taking a drag and passing it to Ray. “He’s a hitman.”

Ray almost choked on his mouthful, but kept it inside, breathing out slowly to avoid a coughing fit. “A hitman?” He ground out. “What, for you?”

Michael only nodded, reaching out for the joint as Ray tried to read his expression. He wanted to ask, he was _dying_ to ask, but he still lingered on that unsure tightrope that was the boundary of his and Michael’s relationship. _A story for another day,_ Michael had told him, but how far away did that day need to be?

“Like Bruce?” he asked cautiously, because there was only one way to find out, and he was praying that the AK-47 that seeped into their lungs was enough to drop Michael’s guard for this one moment, just for Ray to begin to understand.

Michael hesitated, then nodded again. “Yeah. Like Bruce. Don’t worry though, the windows are bulletproof and my phone is rigged to let me know if anyone is taking the elevator up to the top floor. We’ll have approximately twenty-six seconds to prepare for him, if he decides to be a fucking moron and ambush me. The front door won’t open for shit unless you have a keycard or about half a pound of C4 though, so it’s not a likely scenario.”

Ray nodded, and a small silence passed while he contemplated how far he wanted to take it. Four months in, and he already knew Michael better than he knew most of his own family, but it was only the tip of the iceberg. He wanted under the skin, into the deep recesses of Michael’s mind, his past, and what had shaped him into who he was.

And at the same time, that foolish protective instinct was flaring inside of him, and he wanted dossiers. He wanted knowledge. He wanted to make target practice out of whatever fuck kept placing these hits. All he felt was the pulsing need to help in whatever way Michael would let him.

“Dude,” he said softly, pleading, trying to meet Michael’s eyes. “I gotta know, man.”

Michael turned, studied him in the way Ray was growing accustomed to, and rather than shrink from the evaluation like he did with everyone else, Ray let himself be analyzed. He laid all of his broken pieces out on the table, all of his worries and doubts and _needs_ were placed before him to be weighed and measured, and he could see the calculating, cautious spark in Michael’s face as he looked for _something_ in Ray’s eyes, in his expression.

Whatever Michael found seemed to placate him, because he stared back up at the ceiling, took another drag, and began to talk.

“I grew up poor, pretty sure I told you that. My dad was a piece of shit and my mom was weak. She hadn't always been, but my dad beat her like wool until she was soft and submissive. He had a job out at the railroad, and it paid well, but we never saw any of that money. He kept the rent going so he’d have somewhere to crash once his drunken, mindless rage wore off, but none of that money went to my mother, or to us.”

“Us?” Ray asked, and his voice was so eerily subdued in the shift of atmosphere.

Michael raised his hand to take a hit, but stopped. “I have a brother. An older brother.” He lowered his hand, lost in a memory, and his eyes shone with a sadness that Ray would never had thought could outmatch the fire of rage.

“Anyway. I stole a lot, mostly for food, and I got into a lot of fights, mostly for stealing. Round-about cycle of bullshit, you know? I came back to the shitty trailer we lived in one day and I found my dad standing over my mom with a butterfly knife in his hand. He wanted her to start whoring so he’d have more money, something about going into business with a coke buddy he had. She was trying to refuse, first time she’d stood up for herself in years, and he didn’t like it, I guess.”

He passed the blunt to Ray, who took it clumsily, too focused on Michael’s face to pay attention. Michael was still staring into the ceiling, like if he could pour out the story to the heavens, maybe it would undo the damage. Suck some of the pain out.

“I was thirteen, and I grabbed the shotgun from under the table and shot him. Point-blank, right in the back. He died before he could even see it was me. And my mom, standing there with her husband’s blood all over her face, she rounded on me. She screamed, she yelled, and she started hitting me the best she could, crying about how there would be no one to support us, how I’d ruined the family. She asked me who would want her now.

“It happened so fast. She had taken the knife from his hand, and she was out of her fucking mind. She was crazed. That wasn’t my mother in there, something else had taken over, something repressed from years of the shit he put her through, and she was so delirious with fear and shock that she came at me with that fucking knife and I… I pushed her away. I pushed her, and she stumbled back, slipped on the blood, and she cracked her head on the fucking stove.”

He stopped, and turned to look at Ray. His expression was broken, but there were no tears to be shed. The pain was past that. It was the numb, heartbroken, shattered look that someone obtains from an event so cataclysmic that they could never revert back to the person they had been.

Ray swallowed, his heart bottoming out from the _damage_ written across Michael’s face. “Did she…?”

Michael stared at Ray, trying to see something that Ray wasn’t sure he had in him, then nodded. “She died. One minute I was walking home from school with a stolen bag of bread in my backpack, and the next, my parents are lying in a pool of their own blood. I killed them both.”

“You didn’t--” Ray started, but shut up immediately with a swift look from Michael. It was too late for that. Ray placed the blunt back into Michael’s fingers carefully, hoping that human contact would help ease the pain of recounting the story. “And your brother?”

“David. Yeah, turns out that killing your parents doesn’t make for a good sibling relationship. He came home and found me crying like a little bitch next to their bodies, and he was about as furious as the both of them. Always took after my dad, David did. Had my mom's quick thinking and intelligence, but my dad’s demeanor. Not a good combo.

“Anyway, he swore he was going to fucking kill me for what I did. He wouldn’t listen to what happened, or he just didn’t care. I never found out. He’d always needed an outlet, and I guess I was the perfect one. I ran off, left all my shit and lived in a shelter in the city for a few years until I learned to fight better and started making appearances in the ring. Got enough cash from that to survive on my own until Geoff found me."

Ray tried not to envision thirteen year old Michael, stumbling down the streets of Los Santos, hungry and broken and pitiful. The more Ray learned of Los Santos, the more he realized how lucky Michael was to have survived, even if luck that very little to do with it. Michael's entire persona breathed  _I earned this,_ from the way he stood, the way he moved, and the absolute contempt he carried for the people around him. Michael had picked up his pieces, glued them back together, and become whole again; but whatever was inside of him at three years old, at seven, at ten, that was never replaced. It had sunk down into the gutters the moment Michael's pieces had started to crack, lost within the city and all all that it had taken from people just like him. 

Ray breathed and tried to let the image pass as Michael continued with a forlorn sort of sigh. 

“David though… David finished school. He got an immediate internship into the Mayor’s office due to his sob story about his murdered family and homicidal, maniac brother, and he’s brown-nosed his way into the Senate, since he can speak like a rich asshole but the poverty-stricken idiots can identify with his background. He’s got more money and power than he knows what to do with.”

Ray hesitated, before-- “Enough money to hire hitmen?”

And Michael only nodded, bumping Ray’s fingers with his hand until Ray jolted and handed him the joint back.

“How many?”

“This is the sixth one,” Michael replied, already a pro at figuring out all the sentences Ray wanted to ask with his simplified, two word questions. “I figured out it was him after the second guy, because only a politician would send brawn over brains for something they don’t fucking understand. They trickled in slowly, but these last few have been almost back-to-back. He’s getting impatient.”

Ray’s body still felt light compared to the heaviness that weighed in his heart. Now that he knew, he almost wished he didn’t. He would never be able to understand Michael’s pain, but worse, he’d never be able to take any of it for him, never be able to help. It was a burden he’d never be able to shoulder, and these were wounds that not even time would heal, especially if David was alive and well, giving Michael those sharp stabs of distant, horrid memories every time Michael had to avoid another attempt on his life by his only remaining family.

Without thinking, he rolled onto his side to face Michael, overwhelmed with the need to be closer, to comfort in the only way he knew how. When Michael arched an eyebrow at him and his foolish, silly position, Ray only stuck his tongue out, reaching for the joint as a distraction. Surprisingly, Michael shifted his mood and smirked, holding it just out of Ray’s reach, pulling it back inch by inch the more Ray chased after it.

It reached a climax when Ray was hovering over Michael’s chest, stretching for the thick rolled paper held between two of Michael’s fingers, far above Michael's head. He looked down and felt his throat tighten at the sight. Michael was beneath him on the bed, his eyes languid and relaxed from the drugs, and that ever-prominent smirk plastered across his face as he watched Ray struggle. It was a manifestation of the daydreams Ray had been all too guilty to indulge recently, and in his absolute ease and comfort, he found himself smirking back.

“If you wanted me on top of you, you could just say it.”

In response, Michael thrust his hips upwards playfully, and if it were any other moment, it would have been funny. Instead, it sent Ray’s heart into his gut and he was sure the look on his face betrayed everything he’d been trying so desperately to keep sealed up.

“Ray, come on, you should know by now that I’m a tease.”

Ray groaned in exasperation and rolled off before he embarrassed himself, throwing his arm dramatically over his eyes. “You’re going to fucking ruin me, Jones.”

Michael hummed in laughter, moving to get off the bed and take his final drag. “That’s true. You up for finishing the Battleborn campaign? I want to get it off my fucking to-do list before Geoff comes back.”

Ray peeked out from underneath his arm. “Order pizza?”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“....Order pizza in an hour?”

“Deal.”

 

///

 

“I got a call from Carlos this morning.”

Everyone at the table looked up as Ryan entered, throwing his backpack across the couch and sinking into a chair at the table. They had been discussing the pros and cons of using Jack’s card to pay for a five-star lunch from a nearby hotel while he was out doing a street race, but talk was immediately abandoned as Geoff studied Ryan closely.

“Oh? About what?”

“He’s offering you a solid million in unmarked bills for Ray.”

Ray hadn’t been paying too much attention up until that point, too lost in the silence finger-football game he’d been playing with Michael and Gavin, but at the sound of his name he looked up, disbelief spiking through his system.

“What? For me?”

“Why?” Geoff interrupted immediately, but it wasn’t a question. It was a fierce statement that mirrored Geoff’s grounded belief of deception, and his eyes turned to stone.

Ryan shrugged. “Word is spreading. They heard about the perfectly executed Parker assassination, and the Vagos themselves were probably loudly lamenting the loss of a skilled Hispanic, once Victor relayed his report. People are suspecting that the Vangelico’s robbery and your payoff to Carlos aren’t entirely unrelated, but they don’t know what to make of you not officially having him on the crew. They figure he’s up for grabs, and you’re just waiting for the highest offer.”

Geoff leaned back in his chair, stroking his mustache as he mulled over Ryan’s assumptions. Ray looked from Ryan, to Geoff, to Michael, torn between amusement and crippling fear. The fact that someone deemed his skill to be worth a million fucking dollars sent him reeling, but the curious expression on Geoff’s face wasn’t exactly comforting.

He’d been here for over five months already, taking backseat behind Jack during the crew’s heists and learning the finer details of an elite criminal lifestyle. Surely, after all that time, Geoff wouldn’t think of sell him off, right?”

“Geoff,” Michael warned, stern and finalized, and it seemed to shake Geoff’s composure.

“What?” he asked, as if he’d momentarily forgotten his company. “Oh. No. Ryan, you can tell them to stick it up their collective assholes. Narvaez is off the market.” The certainly in his voice belied his former expression, and Ray wondered what Geoff had been considering about the new information if he’d never had the intention of taking up Carlos’ offer.

A sudden dash of hope lit up the inside of Ray’s skull. “Wait, does that mean I’m on the crew?” He asked, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“No,” Geoff stated plainly, shooting him a warning glare. “Now shut up before you embarrass yourself." He paused, glancing at the men around the table. "Actually, Narvaez, I need you to give us the room. Michael, take him down the cell, and come--”

“No need,” Michael interrupted, standing up and motioning for Ray to do the same. “I know what you want to discuss, and I’ll have no part of it. Call me back when you decide to talk about something that actually warrants my concern, Geoff.”

Ray, curious and uneasy, followed Michael out onto the landing and down the steps, refusing to meet the irritated expression on Geoff's face as they left. He struggled to keep up as Michael took the steps two at a time in his apparent bout of agitation.

“You want to tell me what that was about?”

Michael waited to respond until they were out in open sky, having pushed through the back doors and crossing the pavement until they were within sight of Michael's chrome Adder.

“Geoff is just a suspicious conspiracy theorist,” he finally spat, throwing open the driver’s side door and climbing inside. Ray followed his lead without question, having learned that if he was patient, Michael would spill everything.

“He thinks--goddamnit. He thinks that the Vagos put you here in the first place. That this was some stupid set up to get a guy on the inside. He’s so fucking strung out on the belief that Carlos is going to turn on us that he’s just _looking_ for shit that isn’t there.”

Michael started the car and shifted into gear rapidly, his fingers curling tight against the steering wheel. Ray expected it by now and had alreayd plastered himself against the leather seat, fully preparing himself for another thirty minutes of Michael’s road rage.

“If Carlos had put me here, why would he be offering a mill to get me back out? Unless it’s some kind of ploy, to sidetrack suspicion?”

Michael turned into the street, cutting the corner sharply, and Ray already knew they were heading out towards the range, where Michael would be able to work off the steam he was plagued with.

“That’s one theory,” Michael muttered darkly. “Geoff’s current running scenario is that you’ve changed your mind. You didn’t realize you’d be offered into recruitment, and you’ve decided to stay and double-cross. He keeps insisting that you’ve found something here you didn’t expect to, whatever the fuck that means, and you’re trying to stick around.”

Ray swallowed uncomfortably, and found himself spilling the first lie he’d ever told in Michael’s presence.

“Well that’s a load of shit, isn’t it?”

 

///

 

Tensions between them had all but faded a week later, when everyone sauntered in at half past three, ready to prep for a heroin raid and transport. It was a simple job by definition, but outside aspects had their plans teetering on the edge of a pin. The drug setup was over on Forum Drive, and lingered on the cusp of Families and Ballas territory, two gangs who were already at each other’s throats from over a decade of rivalry.

They needed to get in, raid the heroin supplier, and deliver it to a group of Vagos waiting in Rancho without setting off a turf war. They would easily be outnumbered and overwhelmed, and the dark reminder thickened the air around them as they prepared their individual gear.

Even Michael seemed nervous as he shucked on his bulletproof vest, waiting tentatively for Gavin to finish packing so he could start wrapping his hands. Geoff was pacing anxiously, leaning over to inspect his rifle every few seconds for god knows what, eyes narrowed and sober. Ray was watching them closely from his position on the couch, taking in the minute details like he’d been taught to do.

Ryan had painted his face again, and Ray was finally realizing why he went through the effort. Now that he had worked with Ryan more intimately, he knew the man was painfully, unavoidably human. His endearing penchant for diet coke was only matched by the seven stray dogs at his apartment that he had adopted from the streets, and Ray was starting to catch hints of the kind soul that lingered deep beneath the bloodlust.

Ryan needed that mask if he were to keep his infamy. They all did.

Jack was busying himself by fine-tuning all of their GPS’s, seeming calm and collected, but Ray was quick to notice the spare vest and ammunition they had brought up and left by his side. Uneasy looks were flitting between crew members like a silent testament of wills, each waiting for the other to throw down his rifle in defeat and yell, “fuck this.”

They weren’t wondering if things were going to go wrong. They were expecting it.

Their departure was muted, and Ray and Jack maintained the stiff, foreboding silence in their absence, watching each colored dot on the map move slowly closer towards the clusterfuck of gang territory.

“They got this, right?”

Jack only nodded in response, the weak “Yeah,” never becoming loud enough to actually be heard.

 

///

 

It took less than thirty minutes for everything to go to shit.

Ray had his hands fisted in his hair, eyes frantically darting from one monitor to the other as Geoff screamed through the earpiece. 

“Gavin, bail, BAIL! It’s all in the car, just take it and GO!”

Gavin’s frantic, panicked breathing could be heard, twisting Ray’s heartbeat past reasonable levels like a wind-up toy. He could pinpoint Gavin and Ryan’s dots on the map, coupled together and unmoving, before Ryan was muttering furiously into his mic.

“Gavin, get in. Get in get in get in! Come ON!”

The dots immediately shot into forward motion, frantically speeding away from the gunfire that had erupted between the Ballas and The Families once one of them had recognized Geoff and starting shooting, looking for fame. They were heading straight for the dropzone, and once they were a street away, no one seemed to give a shit, their attention focused solely on taking out the boss.

“Michael and Geoff are pinned down,” Jack said, his voice laced with worry as he stood, trying to figure out how to help. “Look, here--” He pointed at their dots on the map, huddled closely together on the corner of a building, and flipped on his mic. “Geoff, are you in the house?”

A crackle of activity, a horrible, ear-splitting sound of a shotgun, and Geoff finally answered. “Yeah. We’re in a kitchen, barricaded at the back door. They’re fucking everywhere--!”

Another series of shots and Michael was cursing into his own mic, profanities littering the channel as he fired back into the throng of loud, wild gang members, all wanting their own piece of the legendary crew.

“Stay there, I’m coming to help. I’ve got a chopper stationed on top of the garage at my place, just hold on until I can get it! Find a way to get to the roof!”

“Hurry!” Geoff shouted, barely distinguishable over the gunfire. “We’re already halfway down on our fucking ammo!”

Jack was already pulling on his vest and holstering his weapon by the time Geoff finished speaking. Jack looked up quickly, assessed the situation he was leaving Ray in, and shot him a warning look as he grabbed his keys from the counter. “Stay here. Don’t fucking touch anything.”

And he was gone, leaving Ray staring, horrified, at the screens as gunfire poured in through the headset. There was only a single security feed of a convenience store one street over, but Ray could easily make out people running past the camera towards Geoff and Michael’s position, pulling handguns from their waistbands.

“Geoff, we can come back. We’re--”

“No! You and Gavin deliver the shit! We’re going to--fuck!--we’re going to see this goddamn thing through!”

Ray could hear Jack’s car on the street below him, peeling out onto the road in his haste. Ray knew how far the landing pad was at Jack’s apartment, and he knew how much time it would take to get there. He knew how many magazines Geoff and Michael had taken, and how much they had already spent. The calculations were a terrifying, easy read.

Help would come too late.

Michael and Geoff knew it too, and in a sudden lull of attacks, the boss was warning Michael in a hushed voice to converse ammo. The line went eerily silent as everyone processed the fact that Jack wasn’t going to make it there in time.

Ray stood, his eyes sweeping frantically over the map. Geoff and Michael were still in Strawberry, still in Idlewood. The whole place was a hub of gang activity, and the two of them were hunkered down only a few streets from the warehouse. Ray wouldn’t be able to pick them up, he’d be mowed down instantly, but he could help.

He could help.

He clambered over the table and starting tearing apart the room, looking for Michael’s affects. Michael never took his wallet with him for shit like this, never wanted his cards to be stolen or repurposed, and he usually left his wallet lingering somewhere in the vicinity. He finally spotted a corner of black leather underneath Gavin’s jacket and scrambled for it as Michael and Geoff started having a fierce argument over ammo conservation and shotgun privileges. Ryan and Gavin were haggling in the background, half muted and frantic, eager to assist but desperately trying to get their pay beforehand.

“Michael,” Ray breathed, and he couldn’t help how _urgent_ he sounded as he flipped through Michael’s wallet and pulled the black and green Fake AH Crew keycard from it. “Michael, tell me your passcode.”

For three seconds, the air hung deadly silent as they all realized what Ray intended to do. A shot whizzed by the mic, Michael cursed, fired back, and a man began screaming in agony in the background.

“Narvaez,” Geoff warned, and it sounded like death warmed over in his ears. “Don’t you fucking move from that spot and don’t you even _think_ about handling a weapon. You sit your ass down and you _wait!_ ”

“Jack’s not going to make it in time,” Ray reasoned, staring at Michael’s keycard like it would hold all the answers for him. His fear was fading, replaced with a narrow conclusion of absolute certainty. He was not going to let them die. Initiation be damned.

"Michael--”

“Michael, don’t you fucking dare answer him!” More gunfire, and Geoff was cursing, yelling with each shot he fired. “Narvaez! If you don’t fucking sit your ass down right now, I will rip you to fucking pieces with my bare hands once I get back! Do you understand me?! You will _never_ be in this crew, and I will leave your body out on the pavement to fucking _rot!”_

Ray winced as another shotgun blast tore through the mic. He swallowed, feeling Geoff’s promises lingering in the depths of his very bones, but he refused to turn back. The only way he’d step down from this is if Michael thought it was right. He steeled himself for either answer, and asked again.

“Michael. Your passcode.”

A breath of silence, then, “Zero nine, zero six, eighty-nine.”

Ray was racing towards the vault before Geoff had even ground out his “Michael, you fucking _asshole,”_ into the line. Their shouting became muted as Ray bolted down the stairs and skidded to a stop in front of the door, sliding the card through the reader with shaking, frantic hands. He punched in the number that Michael had given him, waiting for the light to turn red, waiting for himself to fuck up, but nothing except green shone back at him as the door unhinged and he squeezed himself inside.

He grabbed a duffel from the first table, rounding the cabinet to throw as many .300 cartridges in as he could find. Without hesitating, he grabbed the AWM from the rack as well as an M4 and threw them over his shoulder, staggering slightly with the cumbersome weight before rushing back out the door, slamming it shut firmly behind him.

It took him a little over four minutes to barrel down the empty sidewalks and climb to a rooftop two streets away from Forum, and he could hear the gunfire and screams as soon as he reached the top. Geoff and Michael were arguing furiously over the channel, down to their last mag each, and Ray was shaking with the horrible churning mixture of fear for his own life, and the terror that he wouldn’t make it in time.

He threw himself down onto the littered roof of the convenience store, a good 400 hundred meters from where Geoff and Michael were pinned. He frantically set up his rifle, trying to tune out as Jack was assuring them he’d made it to the chopper, ETA five minutes, (“We don’t have five minutes, Jack!”), and Ryan and Gavin were drawing weapons on the Vago, who was apparently trying to screw them out of money.

Over the chaos of gunfire, the screams of shattered hip bones and Geoff’s panicked orders and demands, over Jack and Ryan and Gavin and all the other voices that rose like the swell of a wave through Ray’s mic, he heard Michael’s one, frantic curse.

“Ray, where the _fuck_ are you?!”

“I’m here,” he mumbled, and threw off his mic entirely, lining up his shot with only the distant sound of carnage to accompany him.

The first splatter of blood fueled his fire and steadied his fingers, and several members of the rival gangs turned tail and fled as Ray popped off a headshot only feet from them. The body fell limp against the ground, blood seeping against the weeds as new, terrified shouting erupted. Ray quickly moved to his next target, a teenager standing stone still in the chaos, gun still raised towards the kitchen window where Michael and Geoff were pinned.

Ray had turned him and the man next to him into Pez dispensers before the others finally caught on to his position.

Attention was drawn away from Michael and Geoff as people began to flee the sniper or retaliate, and Ray tried to rid the terror from his body as he heard bullets zippering past his head or embedding into the cracked stucco of the wall beneath him. His whole body was fire, pain screaming from his joints as he fought the primal instinct to run, to _survive._

He took out eight more before he heard the distant sound of Jack’s chopper, blades cutting through the air with promise and intent. Distantly, he could see Geoff smashing his way through the roof from the attic, but only a few stragglers remained, torn between taking out an unarmed boss, or bolting away from the sniper popping new chest cavities into their neighbors.

Jack maneuvered the chopper to hover over the home as Ray kept the attackers’ attention focused on him, forcing them to hide behind brush and fencing, unable to get a clear shot as Geoff and Michael clambered up into the chopper. Ray took aim, keeping their progress in his peripherals, but his vision was teetering. He tried to line up a shot on a Ballas he could see poking his head out from behind a shed, but his hands were shaking and weak, barely able to grip his weapon.

It was only when the throbbing pain in his side began to amplify did he realize he forgot to put on a vest.

The more aware he became, the more prominent the pain came to light, coursing through his body like the icy-hot hurt was in his bloodstream, pumping through him with each new heartbeat. He was starting to sweat, his hands were clammy, and his entire left side was growing warmer, blood spreading from the wound and soaking into his clothes.

He fired, sending the Ballas flying back into the shrubbery, and this time, it _hurt._ Michael and Geoff were safe on the chopper, his adrenaline was being siphoned from him, and agonizing pain was sweeping over him as his determination faded. He cried out as the force of the recoil send spasms of crippling pain through his body, erupting from his side like a flood of knives, digging in and under his skin to slice him open from the inside out.

He looked around, vision heavy, but no one remained outside except the broken bodies that shattered and split like the windows of the derelict house. At least a dozen, dead by his hands. The rest had fled. Ray tried to pull himself up, knocking over his rifle in the process as he stumbled backwards before even being able to get to his knees, falling back against the cooling vent that snaked it’s way out of the roof. He could distinguish voices struggling to be heard over the deafening sounds of chopper blades, and there was a harsh breeze pounding against his face, but he needed to close his eyes. He was so fucking _tired_.

Sturdy hands were gripping him, hauling him up and off the ground. Someone had his legs, and another pair of arms were slipped under his to carry him across the roof. It felt like seconds had become minutes, maybe the opposite, because it took both a very long and a very short amount of time until he felt the cold metal of the chopper on his skin. His awareness passed intermittently, and one moment he was being jostled across the rooftop and the next, he was propped up against the back of the seat, a firm hand on his shoulder.

“My place, Jack. I’ve got more room. You can land the chopper in the back, it’s usually clear.”

At the recognition of Michael’s voice, he tried to pry his eyes open. He could tell they were flying, and he felt a brief irritation that he was going to die on his first helicopter ride. The thought was entertained for only a moment before the distraction of pain came back triple, a horrible throbbing pierce in his side that he instinctively reached a hand out to press against.

Something was already there though. Rough, damaged fingers were pressing a cloth against the wound, and he grasped them without thinking, a hiss of pain following the startling realization of what had happened. That he had been shot. His vision was shifting in and out of clarity, and Michael’s face finally filtered into view, expression filled with a crazed _happiness_ that Ray was somehow okay with.

“Hey man,” Michael grinned, his face streaked with dirt and blood, and Ray tore his eyes away long enough to look down. Michael was on his knees next to him, hand pressed _hard_ just below Ray’s ribs, and it was covered in red, streaked up past his wrist. The cloth that was pressed against what Ray could only cartoonishly imagine was a huge, gaping hole was completely saturated in blood. Even the bottom half of Ray’s shirt was soaked with shit that he was fairly certain needed to stay _inside_ his body.

“Oh, fuck. I’m gonna die.”

“Nah,” Michael replied, leaning forward to press his forehead against Ray’s, his free hand cupping the back of Ray’s neck. “Can’t die yet. You just started living.”

And with that declaration, he used his free hand to pull Ray’s hair lightly, gently forcing his head up at just the right angle to slot their mouths together. Pure, electric shock seized his body, and for a single, beautiful moment he forgot the agony of pain. He forgot Geoff next to them, scoffing, and forgot Jack flying diligently towards the penthouse; he forgot about being shot and bleeding out and very likely being close to death.

In that one moment, Michael was all he knew.

The kiss tasted like all the things they had come to know -- dirt, lead, blood, and deep, binding promises. Michael shifted, angling himself to get just a bit deeper, moved his lips against Ray’s in just the right way, the slight tease of tongue and expectations, and Ray saw fucking stars behind his eyes. The air was stolen from his lungs and his heart jolted wildly in his chest. For a reckless, fleeting moment, he was actually okay with dying like this, with Michael’s hand fisting in his hair as he kissed him _hard,_ but _fuck_ , he was praying he’d live. He _needed_ to live, if for nothing else but to ensure that their first kiss wouldn't be their last.

God, he wanted more. He wanted everything.

Finally, Michael pulled away, keeping his forehead pressed against Ray’s and meeting his eyes dead on, pulling his free hand up to rest against Ray’s cheek to keep his head steady. Ray was grateful, because his vision was swimming again, and he wasn’t sure if it was from of the hottest kiss he’d ever had in his life, or the severe blood-loss. Both seemed reasonable.

“I want a do-over,” Ray mumbled, struggling against the pressing urge to close his eyes. “I’m kind of dying. I can do better, I swear.”

Michael may have responded, but all Ray heard was Michael's fond laughter as he slipped into unconsciousness.

 


	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am still alive, and no, this story has not been abandoned. My life has taken a dramatic swing in a new direction, and 'busy' would be a severe understatement. I feel truly horrible for the length of time this update took, so I'm dedicating one night a week to work on finishing this, which should provide a semi-regular posting schedule until it's completion. Thank you guys so much for your continued patience. 
> 
> Also, I somehow managed to hang out with Michael for a few hours at RTX this year, and I can assure everyone that he is as incredible in person as he is on camera. Devote your life to him. Well worth it.

Ray’s consciousness struggled in and out of clarity, with his senses overloading him into spasms of awareness in one moment, and numbing him the next. The heat of the sun warmed his body, filling the sight behind his eyelids with a flare of red. The fading sounds of a chopper were replaced by that of a door being thrown open against the wall as he was floated down a set of stairs, hurried feet distinguishable in his haze. The heat was siphoned from him, overcome by the chill of an air conditioned room that goosebumped across his skin, and the change was accompanied by dreary, muggy voices that spoke frantically to each other in a language that Ray knew, but couldn’t comprehend.  

He was being moved, half carried by the pull of strong hands while the remainder of his body slumped against gravity, dependent and useless. He was shifted upwards, and something solid began to support his weight from beneath, giving way to the blare of a light that hovered above him again, urging him to blink his eyes back into vision to access his surroundings.

“Hold him,” he heard a voice say faintly, nothing but a slur of consonants that he only half cared to try and decipher. Firm hands were pressed against his shoulders, pinning him to the solid mass underneath him, and it was comforting, a security that he grasped onto through his haze, soothing in a way that had him drifting back out, before--

“Fuck!” he cursed as a sharp, lightning hot pain swept through his left side. The fog in his mind faded instantly, replaced by a wild desperation to pull away from the agony that crippled him. In his panic, he attempted to push himself up and away, to make himself less vulnerable to whatever animosity was present in the room, but those hands held him tight, fingers tightening their secure hold that sent a jolt of recollection through his body. 

The firefight. The dead. That wrenching feeling of blood blossoming over his shirt, knowing he’d been hit. The chopper. Michael. 

_ Michael. _

His struggling ceased long enough to look up at the figure above him, who held him tight against the table. Worry was etched into the lines of Michael’s face, bracketing a mouth that Ray was used to seeing twisted into a smirk, curved for laughter. Dirt and dust littered the edges of his hair, plastered against his face and broken only by the small trails of sweat that streaked their way down through the mess, leaving clear, freckled skin in their wake. Blood was smeared up to Michael’s elbows, slicking his fingers while the older marks were already drying, flaking and cracking as Michael met his eyes and tightened his grip.

“Hold still, man. You tense up and it’ll hurt worse.”

Ray nodded, clueless to what Michael meant but desperate for direction, and just as he braced himself for the unknown, he caught a familiar flash of light -- the fluorescence shifting from Jack’s glasses. That small footnote gave way to the larger picture in Ray’s pain and shock addled mind, and he quickly put the pieces together: he was injured, severely, and they had brought him back to Michael’s apartment. The solid mass he felt beneath him was the kitchen table, and his body stiffened against it as Jack gingerly pulled the remains of his shirt up, exposing Ray’s stomach and the extent of the damage. Before he could be told not to, Ray lifted his head and looked down, inadvertently tightening the muscles in his abdomen.  

The regret was instantaneous, and Ray snapped his eyes shut and tried to grit himself against the onslaught of pain that accompanied both the sight of his wound and the movement of his body. He was certain he could feel himself being turned inside out from the bullet’s point of entry, and desperately tried to focus on the sounds around him, to recognize elements that would help ease him into a sense of security. He was in Michael’s penthouse, the place he knew as home. Someone was moving chairs away from the table, and another was opening the surgical field kit from underneath the cabinet, rifling through it frantically. The room was overwhelmed with a general sense of panic, and everyone spoke in hushed, worried tones.

Michael remained there with him, and the pressure and reassurance he provided him was solidifying, a pillar of support, but the pain that coursed through him in waves was blossoming out until his nerves were seizing in agony. He couldn’t withhold his sharp cry as Jack pressed his fingers against the wound, feeling the skin around it, looking and accessing in ways Ray was too debilitated to recall the reasons for.

“Michael, keep him calm. The blood loss--”

Michael’s fingers tightened on their own accord, squeezing hard as Ray’s own hands tried to find purchase against the table beneath him. 

“Hey, you gotta calm down buddy,” Michael said to him, voice level, the underlying panic hardly noticeable against the forced calm. “Gotta get that heart rate under control. We’re all here, and we’re going to get you fixed up.”

Ray nodded, the ability to speak having long become a foreign concept, and attempted to steady his breathing. He grimaced and jerked slightly when Jack levelled with the bloody mess that was the lower half of his abdomen, prodding gently. Several tense moments passed this way, with Jack feeling the painfully sensitive tissues that surrounded the wound as Ray cursed under his breath, shaking violently as Michael seemed torn between yelling at Jack for prolonging Ray’s pain, and remaining level headed for the sake of the situation. 

“Good news, Ray,” Jack finally sighed, standing up and popping his back as though Ray’s bleeding, quivering body was only a minor inconvenience. “There’s no internal damage from what I can tell. Looks like you got nicked pretty deep in the muscle, which sucks, but it’s still mainly superficial. Bullet went in and out, and you’ll have some fragments in there. Nothing I can do about that without causing more damage.”

Michael laughed, a breathy, relieved exhale above him as Ray tried to dissect exactly what Jack meant. “Hear that, Ray? Free souvenir.”

He could hear Jack giving out instructions to whoever else was in the room, but Ray’s vision was teetering on white again, and when another wave of hurt pounded through him he grit his teeth moved his hands to clamp down on Michael’s fingers, unable to find the purchase he needed against the sleek finish of the table.

When the pain subsided to an amount that left him manageable enough to open his eyes again, several moments must have passed, because Jack was peering down at him, his hands streaked with blood as he studied something in Ray’s expression. 

“Ray, listen to me if you can. I have to clean you up and stitch you, and it’s going to hurt like hell, but it has to be done. You’ve lost a lot of blood, so if it feels like you’re going to pass out, please just let yourself. It’ll be easier on everyone.”

Ray turned his head to the side and nodded, breathing shallowly against Michael’s arm, unconcerned about how needy he felt, unaware of the inclinations behind it or how he was betraying his decision to keep his affection under wraps in front of watchful eyes. He  _ craved  _ the touch. His pain was crippling, agonizing, and he needed human contact to assure himself he was going to live. 

When Jack began cleaning the wound he gripped both of Michael’s arms  _ hard  _ in his hands, pressing his forehead against Michael’s wrist as he tried to guard himself against the new onslaught of debilitating hurt. His breathing was short, with pain intertwining against the very edges of panic just long enough to send him spiraling down into unconsciousness. 

The last thing he heard before he passed out was Michael’s mantra of reassurances, whispered against the crown of his skull.

“I’ve got you, Ray. I got you.”

 

\---

 

His body was heavy when he woke, the kind of all encompassing weariness of a stressed existence and a lingering fragility that had finally been broken. The air around him was light, a stark contrast to the lead in his veins, and where the nerves in his abdomen had been an eruption of liquid fire before, now there was only a small, distant throbbing. An itch against the back of his hand explained the serenity easily, and he sighed in quiet appreciation of the crews abundance of drugs.

The stiff, unforgiving surface of the table had vanished, replaced by the soft featherdown that Ray  recognized like a familiar landmark -- the scent of Michael, smoky and chaotic, lighting up a chemical response in his brain as the rush of endorphins struggled to make themselves known against the sensory debilitation of drugs. A sense of calm and safety pushed past and enveloped him, casting away the last remaining dregs of unconsciousness, and he willed himself to gather the strength to open his eyes and assess his surroundings. 

The first thing he noticed was the ceiling above him, clean and pristine with the lights dimmed to  almost nothing. He blinked slowly, wearily, and turned his head to the side, spying a littering of  medical supplies and a small glass bottle labelled “Morphine Sulfate” across the bedside table. He  let his eyes adjust until he could focus on two distinct shapes pressed against the wall, Michael  and Gavin, both of whom were sunk down to the floor with their backs to the bookcase. 

Gavin was asleep, his mouth hanging open slightly and his arms flopped uselessly in his lap. Michael’s eyes were still glistening in the minimal lights, though, hovering at the distinct haze of nothingness with that familiar gaze that always made Ray a little sad, a little pained. When Ray cleared his throat though, Michael’s head turned and he adopted a playful smile, genuine and eager in all the ways Ray had come to learn. 

“Holy shit, you’re awake.”

He stood quickly and made his way to sit on the edge of the bed, leaving Gavin to slump over against the corner of the wall. The blood, dust, and general disarray had been washed clean from the both of them, and their clothes had been replaced with less singed garments. Ray gave Michael a quick once over, letting all the questions pour through him until he could pinpoint where he wanted to start the conversation. 

“How long have I been out?”

His voice was gravel in the still air between them, and Michael cracked his knuckles thoughtfully, looking out towards the darkening sky as if to gauge the time. “About four hours or so. Maybe less. Jack patched you up once you knocked out and stopped thrashing around like a lunatic.”

Ray managed to roll his eyes, wondering if he had the strength to push himself up into a better sitting position. “So sorry. Next time I get gut-shot, I’ll be sure to maintain my composure.”

“Hopefully,” Michael smirked. “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t break my fingers.”

Ray remained silent as Michael smoothed over the covers, knit-picking in a way that was so out of character Ray could nearly feel the world around them lining itself up for a showdown. He didn’t want to talk about what happened on the helicopter, not until he was able to digest it, and with the way his eyelids were feeling three times heavier than normal, he doubt he’d be able to make it through the conversation regardless. 

“Is everyone else okay?”

The tenseness in Michael’s shoulders vanished with the change of topic, and Ray relaxed with him, savoring the quiet understanding they seemed to share. This wasn’t the right time. Their own talks could wait. 

“Yeah, other than Gavin accidentally misfiring and nearly taking Ryan’s head off, everyone is good. Vagos tried to screw us out of a few hundred thousand, but Ryan was persuasive -- the middle man is missing like, half his foot, it’s brutal. Made a little over a two mill from it though, once you take out the cost of ammunition and the damage to Gavin’s fucking car.”

Ray settled back into his pillows and fought the nearly overwhelming urge to close his eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re not dead, at least. Although, if you were, no one could stop me from taking off with that Adder.”

Michael scoffed, giving Ray a lingering once-over that enticed a shiver to crawl up his spine that was entirely unrelated to the chill of drugs. “After what you did, you’d fucking deserve it. Saved our asses.”

Ray waved him off, not sure he could currently handle Michael in any more emotional states. “What can I say? I’m an ass man.”

Michael hummed in laughter, unnecessarily smoothing the sheets again. “Good news for me, then.”

Before Ray could fluster up a response, Gavin groaned irritably in the background, rubbing his eyes and shooting them both an agitated expression. “I swear, it’s like a bloody primary school dance in here.”

He stood and swayed towards the both of them, eyes heavy with sleep, stopping at the bedside table to hand Ray the tepid glass of water that had gone ignored. Ray took it greedily, downing nearly half of it before sagging back against the bed, wincing slightly at the lightning fast zip of pain that jolted through his side. 

“Thanks, man,” he mumbled, glancing between the both of them as Michael intentionally avoided his gaze, strangely absent. “So, you guys want to tell me how mad Geoff is?”

The look Michael and Gavin exchanged was nothing but apprehension and worry, sown together tightly with a wilted smile that wouldn’t even reach the edges of their mouths. 

“No one’s seen him since we moved you down here. He just up and left.”

“Didn’t even bother to check up on the rest of us, either,” Gavin mumbled angrily, picking a thread in his pants. “Fucking git.”

Ray waited for a more thorough explanation, but when Michael and Gavin just stared blankly back at him, he realized there was nothing else to ask. 

“So I’m a dead man, is what you’re telling me.” He cursed lightly under his breath and threw his head back. “Michael, be a good nurse and slowly up my dosage until it kills me. Let me die peacefully before Geoff comes back and breaks each one of my bones, Misery style.”

“Bones heal, right?” Gavin asked Michael curiously, and Ray groaned. 

“Fucking goddamnit,” he muttered. “Fine. Okay. I’m going back to sleep. Please, just let me enjoy being shot before I have to experience real pain.”

He closed his eyes resolutely, finally letting the waves of lethargy wash over him as the drugs swimming through his system began to lull him back to sleep. There was a short, whispered conversation between the two men next to him before Gavin’s footsteps ascended the stairs and he felt Michael’s weight leave the mattress. A moment of silence passed, where Ray hovered in and out of the depths of sleep, distracted by Michael’s lingering presence before he felt fingers running through the hair on his scalp. There was movement, as though Michael was torn about leaving Ray’s beside, before Ray passed out to the promising whisper of  “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

 

\---

 

It was late when he woke again, and the light overhead dimmed in comparison to the darkness that poured in through the windows, high above the city's streetlights. He blinked, shifting his stiff body, and winced at the resulting hurt. He was sore, and the painkillers were wearing off, making the throbbing of his wound command his attention. 

Initially, he thought the pain was what woke him, but the more clarity he recovered in his sleep-addled mind, the more he was able to hear the voices above him, shouting, heavy footsteps to accompany heated words. The penthouse was an open plan, unable to hide arguments behind closed doors, and Ray could easily make out Michael’s voice, crass and poised for offense, and Jack’s, reasonable and bullshit-free. To his horror though, he heard the cracked, superior fury of Geoff right alongside them, and the moment footsteps began descending the staircase, Ray hoisted himself up as best as he could, heart hammering wildly. 

“Geoff!” 

Michael’s voice accompanied Geoff’s appearance into the room as the younger trailed behind, trying to keep the boss at bay and continue their argument out of Ray’s earshot, but Geoff waved him back, irritably. The darkness in the room splashed a venomous quality to Geoff’s pristine attire, reminding Ray of all the things Geoff had done to assure that the Ramsey name was untouchable; a shiver of fear and respect that gripped the underground with a resolute thrall. Whatever Geoff had decided tonight, it would be treated as gospel, and Ray’s heart was in his throat. 

“Michael! For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to murder him--”

“You literally  _ just  _ said ‘I’m going to murder that fucking asshole’!”

Geoff stopped a few feet from Ray’s makeshift infirmary and turned, holding up two of his fingers with a furious spark in his eyes. “Okay, Michael, listen. Just shut up, and  _ listen _ . One: I say that to everyone, all the time. I said it to you earlier today when you stole my fucking toaster strudel. Two: if I were going to murder him, it wouldn’t be while he was holed up in your bed, because I  _ know  _ you buy that fucking Egyptian cotton bullshit, and I don’t feel like paying a grand to replace your goddamn bedsheets!”

Geoff took a deep breath, collected himself, and turned towards Ray, who stared back, wide-eyed and borderline terrified. Jack was slowly descending the stairs in the background, watching the scene play out before him, and Michael stood only a few feet behind Geoff, looking poised and alert, even slightly worried. Ray shifted himself again until he was sitting up fully, his back against the pillows, trying to look as composed as possible. He opened his mouth to speak, fingers shaking, but Geoff cut him off immediately with an intense, heated flash of frustration. 

“Don’t. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to keep your fucking mouth shut, do you understand? Not a word.”

Ray nodded, his nerves on fire, but after several moments of tense silence, Geoff’s anger seemed to simmer down at everyone’s nervous acquiescence. He turned and studied Ray with those inhuman eyes, the eyes that saw secrets and lies and dissected Ray at a molecular level, but Ray remained quiet and stone still until Geoff sighed, reading within Ray whatever he had meant to look for. 

“Alright. I’m going to skip the pleasantries, because you all know why I’m here. To recap... Earlier today, you were left alone and unsupervised due to events beyond our control. This was the first time you had been given an opportunity to either listen to me, or betray me, and you choose the latter.”

Ray swallowed thickly, feeling the picture-perfect pieces of his life that had started to form crumbling beneath him. He’d fucked up,  _ again.  _ All of this would be for nothing, and he was going to end up dead, or worse. He avoided meeting Michael’s eyes, refusing to give Geoff the knowledge that Michael had been letting him sleep unsupervised and unshackled for months. He’d take that to the grave.

“Geoff, he saved your fucking life--”

“Michael, for the love of god,  _ shut up! _ ” Geoff snarled, turning again to give Michael a furious once-over, and Ray caught sight of a small, leather bound bag clutched in Geoff’s fingers. He tried not to panic as he imagined what Geoff could have brought as retribution, as a lesson, and he was suddenly so very worried about how many fingers he would have left after this. 

Once Michael had been (unwillingly) quieted, Geoff set his sights back on Ray, running his fingers irritably through his hair.

“Anyway, back to the fucking recap. I ordered you to stay sitting, and wait for instruction. You didn’t. You  _ ignored  _ me. You then  _ stole  _ Michael’s keycard, swiped thirty thousand dollars of weapons and ammunition, left the goddamn building, and took matters into your own hands, at your own discretion.” Ray actually winced as Geoff continued, his voice rising as he gestured accusingly in Ray’s direction. “You have been insubordinate since you arrived, you have no admirable gratitude for me, for my crew, or for the people you should fear, and you have ingrained yourself here in all the ways I explicitly told you  _ not  _ to.”

He paused, and stared Ray down, as though he were unconsciously running through each of the different ways he could berate Ray as they floated through his mind, begging to be the punchline of every fault Ray had shown for the past six months. 

Instead, his expression softened, and he clasped the bag firmly between his hands. 

“Narvaez, I  _ hate  _ disobedience,” he shifted, looking weary and defeated, like he kept trying to map out his future but life was constantly swindling him. “But… I respect loyalty. I’m fucking nuts about it. And I recognize that your decision to disobey me was based out of some ass-backwards loyalty to us. To Michael. To the crew.”

Ray shifted his eyes to Michael for a split-second, just long enough to get a glimpse of the surprise written across Michael’s features as Geoff spoke. The more words that poured from Geoff’s mouth, the more likely it seemed that Ray would be keeping all of his fingers, and Ray’s heart was allowing the inklings of hope to return his pulse to normal levels. 

“By putting my orders last, you put the safety of this crew first. And as much as I was hoping to beat you senseless with a tire-iron, I can’t ignore the fact that you put your life on the line to save ours.” There was a very prominent pause, in which Geoff glanced towards Jack, who nodded, before continuing. “You gained my trust today, Ray, and I can offer no higher praise than that.”

In the shocked silence that filled the room, Geoff unzipped his bag and fished around in it before tossing two cards across Ray’s lap. Shell-shocked, Ray picked them up with weak, shaking hands. They were almost identical to Michael’s; one was labelled ‘Fake AH Crew’ in shocking green letters, and the other was a heavy, matte black, with nothing but the name ‘Narvaez’ etched across the bottom in glistening silver. 

“Is this--?”

Geoff cut him off, gesturing vaguely towards the cards. “You’ll have to give me your passcode later, and I’ll show you how to input it. Michael can explain the regulations of accessing the armory, and you’ll be on checkout duty a few times a month.”

Geoff rubbed at his eyes childishly until the skin stretched, like he was already regretting what he’d done. His voice was laced with a dreary boredom, as though he couldn't believe what he was saying, but accepted it regardless. “The other card is linked to a subsidiary account in my name at a Swiss bank firm, so I’ll be handling your monetary transactions once you complete jobs. I’ve placed your thirty-thousand from the Parker deal in there, as well as your original two grand, the half grand that we got for your car, and I’ve allotted you three percent of the total we’ve made while you’ve been on probation.” 

Ray blanched, clutching the cards desperately in his fingers as Geoff finalized, “In other words, you have a little over three-hundred and thirty three thousand dollars on that card. Use it how you will.” 

Ray looked up at him, trying to remember the muscles it took to form words, to relay his gratefulness and his thanks, but everything was caught in his throat as he tightened his grip around the two most meaningful items he’d ever carried. 

His silence seemed to spark a recollection in Geoff, and he jolted slightly, going back to his bag. “Oh, and this. Here.” He tossed a smartphone across Ray’s lap, definitely aiming for his dick, and proceeded to pull a set of keys out and jiggle them between his fingers. 

“Phone is for work and personal use, but remember that I have access to it, so please, for the love of god, warn me if you’ve been sexting. And, despite my better judgement, I have a gift. As, you know, a thanks for saving mine and Michael’s ass and whatnot. Griffon insisted.” 

He tossed the keys and Ray caught them easily, his reflexes much better than what they had been months ago, and turned them between his fingers to examine them. ‘Pagassi’ was written in large, block letters across the leather capping of the ignition key, and had been stamped with the familiar horseshoe logo. 

Before Ray could ask, Geoff answered. “It’s just a Vacca. Sorry, but if you want a Zentorno, you’d have to blow me.”

“Unzip then,  _ please, _ ” Ray grinned wildly, feeling the weight of the key in his hands. He couldn’t be bothered to hide his shock, or his ecstatic relief over not being cast aside and thrown into hell. His fingers were still shaking, and his disbelief of being  _ rewarded  _ rather than punished was sending sparks of euphoria across his nerve endings. “Geoff, fuck, thank you man. Seriously. This is… this means I’m in, right?”

He shot a hopeful glance at Michael, who was hiding his smile behind his hand, though the creases in the corners of his eyes belied his neutral appearance. Geoff sighed, looking Ray over like a parent does to a disobedient, yet enthralling child, his expression filled with frustrated acceptance. 

“Yes. But ignore my orders like that again, and you’ll be dead by dessert. Which is a shame, because I make some bomb ass truffles.”

“The blueberry ones suck though, don't eat those.”

Geoff turned towards Michael, hurt stretched across his features. “You said you liked it!”

“I  _ hate  _ blueberries, Geoff! But Griffon was staring me down when I ate it and I really didn’t want my legs to end up sold to some asshole in Cincinnati because she carved them up to look like totem poles because I wouldn’t come in my pants from your fucking treats!”

Geoff paused, considering. “Still though. The cherry is good?”

Michael rolled his eyes, smile turning fonder despite how he tried to look away. “Yes, Geoffrey. The cherry is heaven.”

“Excellent,” he clapped his hands together, looking around at all of them in turn. “Now that this snooze-fest is over, I’ll be taking my leave. Ray, try and heal up, because we have a heist coming up in less than a month and I’ll need your particular skillset. Michael, Jack, I’ll be seeing you, and Michael, I forgive you for your fucking attitude problem,  _ yet  _ again. Also, has anyone seen Gavin?”

Michael shrugged, unable to wipe the serene smile from his face. “Mentioned something about work. He’s been gone for a few hours now.”

Geoff rolled his eyes and made his way towards the stairs. “Working, sure. I don’t want to call him out on bullshit already, since it’s only--” he stopped to check his watch, “--well, ten, but the night is still relatively young. Tell him to call me when he unburies his head from his ass.”

“Kinky,” Ray muttered under his breath, his fingers tight around Geoff’s acceptance.

The room bid their farewells, with Jack lingering, his mouth full of questions about a foreign bank and spreading infamy. Geoff indulged him quietly as they exited the room together, footsteps fading on the wood. 

Michael stayed, going over the pluck the car keys from Ray’s hand and examine them.

“It’s brown, you know. The Vacca. I saw it outside earlier, but didn’t realize Geoff had anything to do with it. His idea of a joke, I think.”

“It’s a free fucking Vacca, I’d be happy if it was covered with literal shit.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Geoff has pull in strange areas,” Michael grinned, placing the keys into the cabinet of the end table next to them. “Paid a pencil pusher twenty thousand dollars to take a steaming pile on his boss’ desk once, just for giggles.”

But Ray wasn’t listening. His fingers were starting to sweat around those seemingly innocuous cards, and the faint, fluttering feeling that swam through his bones could easily still be shock rather than the draining comforts of medicinal painkillers. 

“He called me Ray,” he mumbled finally, turning the cards between his fingers. 

“What?”

“He’s called me Narvaez since the day we met. It’s the first time he’s ever said my name.”

Michael rolled his eyes, “Let me call Destiny’s Child--”

“Shut up, I’m serious. I’m fucking in, dude. This is it.”

The air swirled and changed around them, between them. Michael’s expression softened, and the firm, stern lines of his face relaxed into something almost human. Whatever he saw in Ray’s eyes must have made more of an impression than his words ever could, because there was a satisfying moment of solidarity between them, a dramatic climax in a shared story, a pinnacle, and Ray couldn’t force himself to look away, despite the flush across his neck. 

“You’ve been in,” Michael muttered, finally peeling his eyes away to take the phone from Ray’s lap. “Just had to convince everyone else. Now come on, give up the cards so you can go back to sleep.”

“I’m  _ tired  _ of sleeping,” Ray whined, but allowed Michael to remove his new belongings and toss them into the same drawer he had put the keys to Ray’s new car. 

“No, you’re just  _ tired. _ Want more drugs?”

Ray only responded with a small pout, meant to look endearing, but Michael only scoffed. “Shit doesn’t work on me normally, but I’ll indulge you this time. Only because you were shot.”

While Michael got to work fishing out another bottle of morphine for his push, Ray turned his attentions towards the window, watching the stars that he’d struggled to even see back at his shitty apartment on the east end. They were dim, then, hardly distinguishable between the lights of the city flooding his senses and the waves of fog, smoke, and pollution that rolled over the streets. 

Here though, in Michael’s penthouse with the world of festering whores and low-brow criminals far beneath him, dredged through the gutters he once called home, he was safe. Here, he was elite. Here, those stars weren’t only tangible, they were accessible. And Ray wanted all of it, he wanted to claim this city, just as Michael had done, as Geoff had done; he wanted to drag those stars down until they gave up their secrets of being so brightly wound in the night that everyone knew their names. 

But for now, with the man who had tried to mug him slowly injecting morphine into his bloodstream, laughing quietly at the group antics of people Ray now called friends, he was at peace. He was where he belonged. 

  
  


\---

 

Another full day and a half passed before Michael agreed to relent on the drugs long enough for Ray to hold a decent conversation. Jack had declared his wound to be healing nicely, despite the rather “wicked starburst scar” he would be carrying for life. He had almost seemed woeful about the tainted skin, but Ray was already reveling in it, the promise of a casual reminder every morning, situated in a place where he’d feel the roughened skin every time he changed his shirt, or ran his hands over his sides in the shower. He wondered, disoriented with novelty, how Michael would react to finding it there again, months from now. Years from now. He’d imagine thumbs sliding over it as he was disrobed, hands in a firm grip on his hips--

He opened his eyes, effectively cutting off that trail of thought, stamping down the images in his mind. The past days had been riddled with pain medication, visitors, and questions, shared excitement for the future as a crew of six rather than five, but no mention had been made of Michael and Ray’s burst of affection inside the chopper. 

Something lingered there, a stare that would go on too long, the ghost of the touch that could be considered questionable in public company, but no words were exchanged. It was a conversation they were either avoiding, or pretending didn’t need to happen, and Ray was fine with either, willing to avoid a potential problem rather than facing it head on before he could even be considered clearheaded. 

He heaved a sigh and sat up, grimacing as the healing wound in his side gave a stab of annoyance. He’d convinced Michael to cut off his morphine entirely, and had been freed from his IV the previous night. His body was stiff with disuse, and the throbbing aftershocks of pain were aggravating enough that he could barely manage a trip to the bathroom before passing back out across the bed.. 

He could hear the soft murmurings of the television upstairs, accompanied by the dismayed sound of Michael attempting to locate something in the kitchen, and Ray smiled. Domesticity was never his strong suit, but it had slotted in nicely during his extended stay, feeling more comfortable here with Michael than he’d ever had in his own homes. The dawn was peering at him through the floor to ceiling windows, so, if Ray were to garner a guess, Michael would be frantically trying to find a clean coffee cup, having avoided doing the dishes for the past three days. 

Calling out for him would be futile, and Ray didn’t want to take his chances climbing up a flight of stairs on his own yet, so he glanced around for something to occupy his time. The remote to the bedroom’s television was only an arm’s length away, but he decided against it, far too content to listen to Michael’s exemplary display of morning vulgarities to drown them out with droll trash TV. 

With the drugs nearly cleared from his system, he remembered that Geoff had given him a phone - an ideal item for wasting time. He hadn’t had one since he’d scrambled out of his old apartment, an unconscious Michael draped across his backseat, so a heartbeat of glee passed through him at the thought of having a personal belonging again. 

He opened up the bottom drawer, wincing as he stretched his body down to fumble with the belongings scattered inside. His fingers brushed across the two cards Geoff had given him, a strange multitude of pens and pocket knives, and just as his hand went to close around the smartphone, he felt something off. Something that didn’t quite belong. 

He hesitated, his fingers gripping the edges of what was clearly a jewelry box, and remembered Michael’s chilling warning to not go through the things in his bedroom. But the velvet under the pads of his fingers raised questions he couldn’t swallow, and with a resigned panic, he made a quick, selfish decision. 

The small black box had been tucked into the corner, both out of sight yet lovingly protected, and Ray removed it carefully, half convinced it would be wired to explode or set off an alarm. His hands were shaking and his breath was caught in his throat as disbelief welled in the pit of his stomach. He knew what it was, he wasn’t an idiot, but part of him hoped it would be something --  _ anything  _ \-- else. Because Michael, who was undoubtedly single, wouldn’t be guarding a ring like a precious, beautiful thing if he wasn’t as closely guarding the secret that went with it. 

He opened the box gingerly, the creaking of disuse echoing in the room around him. His heart sank as a lone, sparkling diamond gleamed back at him, amplifying the lines of sorrow that were etching across his face. An engagement ring. Untouched. Never worn. 

Michael had either been dumped pre-engagement, or…

He tried to shut the box quickly and quietly, wanting to seal up the implications, but as soon as the lid snapped back into place, Michael had already appeared at the bottom of the staircase, two mismatched mugs of coffee in his hands. 

His eyes darted from Ray’s face to the small black box he clutched between his fingers, and Ray was suddenly plagued with unquantifiable guilt as the mustered morning cheer Michael had forced himself to adopt melted from his face. 

Ray closed his eyes, misery throbbing through him at his selfishness. “Fuck -- Michael.  _ Jesus.  _ I’m so fucking sorry.

He expected anger, but Michael only stood there, torn between unsettling shock and what looked like confusion. Finally, after a short eternity where Ray simply clutched onto the box in his hands, far too aware that he had intruded onto something too personal for his knowledge, Michael stepped forward and handed him one of the coffees, motioning for Ray to pass the ring over. 

Ray took both mugs and set them on the end table as he watched Michael’s face set itself into a strange mixture of longing and bitterness, like he’d seen the ghost of a past he’d rather have kept forgotten. He didn’t open the box again, just ran his fingers across it and remained quiet, looking for words Ray wished he didn’t have to find. 

“I….” he started, then stopped, chancing a glance at Ray as though he could muster some sort of excuse. “The ring was… only for tradition. She already knew I was going to ask.” He laughed sadly, a broken man silhouetted against the dawn. “Hell, she had already told me yes.”

Ray hesitated, wondering if speaking would break Michael’s will to divulge this area of his life, or if it would encourage him. He couldn’t gauge yet what had led to this conclusion, of Michael’s solitude, of whether the girl was even still alive, so he chose his words carefully. “What happened? What went wrong?”

Michael sighed, the roughened edges of a healing cut on his thumb catching the exquisite fabric of the bedsheets. “There was an incident, when she was working at her tech job down on Elm. She got a call that her sister was being taken in for immediate surgery and she raced out, hell bent. Her tires had been slashed so she just took off down the fucking street. She was only a few blocks away when I guess she finally put it all together.”

Michael’s expression glassed over momentarily, and Ray knew he was picturing it in his head, the moment her eyes had gone wide, the moment she realized where she had gone wrong.

“She called the police first. That’s what people do, right? They call the police. I was only six blocks away at Geoff’s, and she….” He put his face in his hand, screwing his eyes shut before continuing. “It was only when they were tailing her from all directions that she called me. Of course, I didn’t make it down to her before they had already cut her open.”

Ray’s throat tightened as poignant dismay filled his senses, encompassing his body in the horror of Michael’s imagery. Michael looked calm, easing words from his mouth like they had been rehearsed in front of a mirror, but Ray already knew how to look for the shattered pieces Michael hid beneath a poised exterior. Before Ray could respond, Michael was groping towards the wallet he’d left at the bedside table, rifling through it until he found an aged and wrinkled photo, pulling it out to hand to Ray. 

The photo was dark, the background of a club shadowing most of the details, but Michael was immediately distinguishable. He looked younger in frame, though the weariness of a hard life could still be seen, woven through his eyes. His arms were thinner, not yet used to toting around rifles, and his right hand rested comfortably on the waist of a red-haired woman, who had her hands cupped gracefully against his neck. Their eyes had met during the photo, and the admiration that poured from them hallowed any love Ray had ever known. Neat handwriting proclaimed  _ Michael and Lindsay <3  _ across the bottom in fading purple sharpie. 

“Lindsay,” Ray muttered, holding the photo delicately to respect the reverence Michael placed upon it. “She’s beautiful.”

“She  _ was  _ beautiful,” Michael corrected immediately, plucking the photo from Ray’s hands. “She’s just dead now. That’s it.”

Ray was accustomed to Michael’s anger, especially as a defense mechanism, but the emotions being so carefully written off hurt more than the pain etched into Michael’s expression. This wasn’t just grief. This was guilt. This was something that, years later, ate at him in ways that only a responsible party would know. Michael blamed himself. In some way, Michael’s existence had altered Lindsay’s lifespan.

“She was a message,” Ray summarized, speaking so quickly that he was unable to hide the disgusted shock in his tone as he put the pieces together. “They killed her to get to you, didn’t they? Why?”

Michael’s eyes flashed angrily at him as he gingerly folded the photograph back into his wallet. “Figured that out all on your own, did you?”

Ray shrugged minutely, trying to keep things easy and calculated without bordering on insincerity. If he acted too emotionally involved, Michael would bail, but if he lacked any respect for her death, Michael would be reduced to fury and silence. 

“Slashed tires aren’t uncommon, but the very day she gets a call that forces her outside? I’m going to assume that her sister was fine, right?

“Well, fine enough that morning. Less fine when they called her to identify Lindsay’s body.”

Ray instinctively didn’t meet Michael’s gaze, too aware that Michael was frantically searching for an out. Giving life to dark humor may be an easy coping mechanism for them, but it would lead to unanswered questions and an unsettled demeanor, neither of which Ray wanted to spend the rest of his time with. 

“Who’d you piss off that badly?”

Michael chewed his lip, leveling Ray with a calculated look. He was slowly coming to terms with surrendering his information, but Ray could read the avoidance in the tight lines of his mouth better than he could survey his own emotions. This was new territory for them both, uncharted and unnecessary for their friendship. Ray may have needed to know about the hitmen, if only for his protection and self-awareness, but Michael’s murdered fiancee -- that knowledge would only serve to weaken Michael’s defense against others. 

Finally, Michael relented, “A guy named Marco. Geoff had taken me out on one of my first test runs as part of the crew, and I took out a few key members of a prominent drug cartel that was on top at the time. I put a bullet through Marco’s younger brother when he came after Gavin with a knife. Kid was only sixteen, and idolized Marco, wanted to be just like him. Impress him, probably. His name was Isaac. The only reason I know that was because they carved it across her chest before they slit her throat.”

Michael reached out a took a drink of his cooling coffee, likely to calm his fidgeting fingers. “I wasn’t careful enough with Lindsay. I didn’t realize how deep these feuds ran, and exactly how powerful and petty gang wars were. I took her out. I let her be seen on my arm, driving my car…. They probably had tabs on me buying that fucking ring. I hadn’t known…”

He took another drink, swallowing it down like he barely tasted it, and Ray was overcome with a sudden bout of irrepressible anger. He could see the montage of Michael’s life in his mind, the flat-line of childhood and the steady incline of happiness when he had met Gavin, when he met Lindsay. He was useful. He was on the verge of success. He had a beautiful woman he came home to, had the ability to shower her in affections, physical and superficial, and for the first time since the death of his parents, he had allowed himself to be naive. He’d allowed himself to be happy without thinking about how it could all go wrong, like so many things had before.

Ray’s vision swam with grief for Michael, whose life could be measured by what was taken from him; for Lindsay, who would have been his beautiful bride, who could have still been smiling today. He was bitter for Michael’s wasted chance to be at peace with the world. He was furious with the things he couldn’t fix, validated at his insouciance for the world and the people it nurtured, and filled with a startling need for vengeance towards those who wronged the people he loved. 

“What did you do to them?”

Michael seemed off put at the sudden alarming quality of ferocity in Ray’s voice, but hid it quickly. “I didn’t do anything. I grieved her. I didn’t want to go near those fuckers. I didn’t want them to know how deep they fucking gutted me.”

“Bullshit,” Ray snarled, and Michael raised an eyebrow, agitation settling in where a casual, dismissive attitude was trying to linger. 

“Hey, fuck you, alright? It’s not your fucking business anyway.”

“Tell me you made them pay, Michael--” 

“Drop it, cocksucker--!”

“--Don’t you dare fucking tell me you let them get away with this shit!”

“Fine!” Michael snapped, and Ray could feel the tension radiating from Michael’s furious, quivering body. “You want to fucking know what happened? I’ll tell you. I got my hands on Marco and the two that sliced her open. I tied them to chairs inside Marco’s house, listened to them curse and yell and plead for an hour while I cut bits of them off and watched them bleed.” Michael’s eyes widened, and Ray watched the story unfold in them. The hatred. The carnal  _ need  _ to watch them suffer, to feel their regret and taste the fear that Michael leeched out of them from the moment they knew they’d be denied forgiveness.

“I  _ gutted  _ them,” Michael growled, intensely focused on Ray’s reaction, as if waiting for the fallout of admitting his most visceral crime, his most brutal. “And when they were barely clinging to life, passing out from shock and blood loss, I burned them alive. I stood there, covered in their fucking blood and gore and repentance, and I watched them burn until they stopped screaming. Until they were charred, broken bodies sprawled out on collapsed chairs. Then, I hosed myself down, wandered down to the bay, and looked for a dealer. I bought everything he had on him. I don’t remember much after that, but I ended up stumbling to Geoff’s place. Somehow, he managed to keep me alive.”

Ray let his eyes drift over Michael, taking in his arms, the cuts and scars littered across them, and wondering how many were track lines, or how many were self inflicted. He dragged his sight up to match Michael’s, who was looking at him with a carefully hidden edge of dismay, like he had overturned the boat and was wondering why everyone wasn’t screaming and swimming for shore. 

“Do you regret it?” Ray asked cautiously, shutting down the desire to reach out and touch, to examine. To look for physical evidence of Michael’s heartbreak. 

“What, killing them?”

“No. Staying alive, I mean.”

Michael’s posture stiffened with surprise, having prepared for the wrong questions. He swallowed thickly, visibly trying to construe an answer that would appease Ray without letting himself seem too human, and for the first time, Ray felt the hollow jolts of pity fill that measurable distance between them. 

“I don’t regret it. And before you ask, no, it’s not something to fucking fret over. It was a long time ago.”

Ray bit down his arguments. The drug use was Michael’s own discretion, and if he’d survived this long and maintained his superior health, it wasn’t Ray’s place to question it. The lost love was tragic, scarring, and he was all too aware that Michael hadn’t shown any romantic inclination to anyone since they’d been rooming together. He was damaged, heavily, and moving on might never be a viable future. 

Which made Michael’s casual devotion, their shared kiss, and the heat that lingered between them all the more frightening. 

“I’d appreciate you keeping your mouth shut about it,” Michael continued, letting the lines of his body relax into something less oppressive. “I mean, everyone knows, but it’s not really dinner table discussion, you know?”

Ray forced a smile, wanting to alter the mood just as desperately as Michael was asking him to. “As long as continued discussion on dick sizes and whether or not you’ll let me borrow that RPG remain on the table, I can agree to that.”

Michael held up his hands in defeat, and Ray could feel the tension easing out of their conversation. He was grateful. Despite wanting to learn about Michael’s history, he’d rather remain curious and have the mysteries unfulfilled if it caused Michael to place distance between them. He was okay with missing pieces, as long as he was gifted with the presence of what was left. 

“Big guns for big heists, baby. You’re stuck with small fry until we need it -- hey, don’t roll your eyes at me. Ammunition for that thing is crazy fucking expensive. And if you want it painted some stupid shit like plaid, fucking forget about eating this month.”

Ray grimaced. “Why plaid?”

Michael shrugged, picking absently at a freckle on his arm. “Ask Ryan, that’s his thing. You’ve got something better?”

“Pink,” Ray responded, allowing the glorious image of a pink arsenal to blossom to life in his mind. “You know, to represent all the pussy I’ll be drowning in.”

“Look, I’m glad that you’re excited about losing your virginity, but--”

Michael cut himself off immediately, his head whipping around to study the staircase with a quiet, intense calculation. Ray hadn’t picked up on anything that would cause alarm or suspicion, but Michael’s eyes were narrowed and his senses on alert, so he kept his questions lingering in the back of his throat, waiting. Michael’s hand drifted towards the hem in the back of his pants as he stood quickly and quietly, peering up towards the staircase as the morning light splayed golden hues against the red in his hair. 

And then, Ray heard it, the distinguishable sound of the front door upstairs being slid open against the wood, accompanied by the fumblings of someone who paid little attention to a covert break in. Ray’s rapidly climbing defenses faltered, sensing all the signs of a friendly guest rather than a malicious intruder. Michael’s face screwed up in befuddled agitation as he listened to the soft curse from upstairs, his hand moving away from his sidearm as he shot Ray an incredulous look. 

“Gavin?” Ray whispered quietly, and Michael rolled his eyes in response, nodding. 

A few seconds passed as the stranger upstairs descended the staircase, stumbling slightly as the steps turned direction. Gavin saw Ray first as he reached the landing, looking well rested and respectable with a button down and dark jeans, a smile lifting the edges of his face as he opened his mouth to greet Ray -- only to have Michael’s fist sink directly into the tender flesh of his gut.

Gavin doubled over in pain, sheltering himself against the wall as he wrapped his arms around his stomach protectively, wincing and coughing. Ray buckled in laughter at the sight, instantly regretting it as dulled spasms of pain protested the use of his abdomen muscles, but he couldn’t keep the laughter from shaking through his body as Michael began his tirade. 

“--the fuck you’re thinking, you goddamn idiot!”

“I didn’t want to be a bother!” Gavin whined back, his face screwed up in pain. “Sometimes you don’t even open the bloody door, how am I supposed to--”

“How many times, Gavin?! How many times have I sat down and told you, Hey, Gav-o, if you hack into my security system and shut down my door locks, you’re gonna get gut-punched! How many times?”

“Michael, ah, it hurts!”

“No fucking shit it hurts! Hurts almost as much as the lack of trust here, Gavin. That’s the real pain,” Michael snickered, holding out his hand for Gavin to take, face bemused. “Now, what did we learn?”

Gavin huffed and winced as he accepted Michael’s hand and was pulled back to a standing position, wobbling only slightly. “Other than you’re real miffed off in the morning?”

“You’ve known that,” Michael waved him off, tucking his Springfield more securely into the hem of his pants. “Now, what the fuck do you want?”

“I come -- ow! -- with a proposition for the three of us,” Gavin replied, his voice only slightly husky as he dusted off his spotless attire and steadied his weight against the wall. “Just us young blokes. Team lads, if you will. Congratulations on the whole induction thing, by the way,” he added, nodding his head at Ray. “I was really hoping Geoff would come around.”

“Thanks, Gavin,” Ray responded, appreciation laced through his tone and happily surprised at Gavin’s blatant admittance of approval. “Can we pass on the celebratory sex, though? I’m still a little out of commission.”

Gavin grinned at him, something lively -- youthful and spontaneous. “I’ll pencil you in for a later date.”

Michael shook his head wearily before draining his coffee. “What’s the job, Gav? Come on, give us the details. Good pay? Is it a hit? Easy take?”

“Nope!” Gavin responded cheerfully. “None of the above, actually. It’s more of a… ah, personal endeavor.” He looked away from Michael and locked eyes with Ray. “How long until you can be back in action?”

Ray shrugged, raising his eyebrow curiously and hoping to garner more information. “Dunno, Jack said I should be good in about a week or two, as long as I take it easy.”

“That’s good, because our window of opportunity is short.”

“Gav, what the fuck is it?” Michael asked, his words teetering on the edge of frustration at Gavin’s vague details. 

Gavin ignored him, walking over to Ray and holding out his phone, brightly lit and heavy in Ray’s hand as he took it. On the screen was a grainy photo of a burly, street-roughened man loitering outside of a run down motel, his head was turned to peer over his shoulder, as if he knew he were being watched, and he looked nervous, jittery. Before Ray could question the man’s identity, Gavin was already speaking quietly, his voice hushed in the silence of the room, amplifying the importance of what he spoke. 

“Ray, what would you say if I told you that that man there was responsible for Andrew and Liz’s murder?”

Ray’s breath was sucked from his lungs, tightening his chest until his body felt clenched inside itself. His fingers warped around the surface of the phone on their own accord as he tried to fully process Gavin’s words. Andrew’s face swam into view again, the contagious laughter that would linger between them, lighting up Liz’s face. The longer he stared at the man in the photo, the more his carnal instincts grew, and suddenly, lying in bed was a horrific waste of time. He wanted his rifle back in his hands and his feet across pavement, shrouded in the darkness he was slowly embracing. He wanted revenge. 

Ray looked up and met Gavin’s eyes, somber in a way Gavin hadn’t respected him enough to portray before then, but still glimmering, the insatiable hope for carnage and disarray unable to be swallowed by the severity of situation. Ray shifted to look for Michael, wanting to read the same things he felt across the face of the man who had brought him here. A controlled fire met his gaze, heavy and dormant, but steadily burning with a reckless need to quench the thirst of vengeance he thrived upon, and Ray easily read all the things Michael didn’t need to say. 

He stared down at the photo that shone from the screen, eyes drinking in every detail of the man who was doomed for death, and felt the same simmering desires he’d known at the top of the roof of that derelict building, sending round after round into the miscreants of the world. 

“I’d say let’s go get that fucker.”


	16. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, i'm a piece of shit  
> *finger-guns guiltily*

Ray was quick to learn of Gavin’s ineptitude for maintaining a clean workspace, and his inclination for commandeering whatever utilities he needed to ease his unorthodox research binges. With the week that followed, he and Michael found themselves at the hacker’s whim, easily thrown aside at their lack of computer prowess (despite their desperate attempt to help in whatever Gavin would deem unimportant enough to delegate to them).

“I’ve _got_ it,” Gavin hissed in warning, speeding his way through security footage zoomed in on the outside of a strip joint with a gaze so focused Ray grew concerned about temporary brain damage. Gavin batted Michael away furiously, all irascible annoyance and snappy attitude. “Just...go through your plan again. Or get more Red Bull. Something. Just sod _off,_ Michael.”

Michael sighed and threw himself back against the couch, tapping his fingers distractedly on the arm and meeting Ray’s eyes over the thick fog of agitation that plagued their party of three. The duration of the morning had been spent like this, a fiery urgency that coupled toxically with frustrated noises and easily broken attention spans. Ray met his gaze, quietly basking in the comfort of a shared mood, even if that affinity had been manifested through a distinct lack of purpose. He shifted his weight in discomfort and felt the familiar gnaw of a foreign sensation, where scar tissue had replaced what was once unblemished skin.

Ray’s abdomen had healed perfectly, and Jack had given a full write-off, okaying him for immediate action and involvement. Geoff, however, was still riding the high from their profits and had left town, complaining that he’d promised Griffon a trip through the Netherlands, all while trying to hide the smile that betrayed his intentionally listless words. Jack had booked it towards Australia, ignoring the catcalls and blatant teases about a romantic rendezvous, though the color that swelled in his neck when Michael asked her name was harder for him to play off.

Ryan remained in contact, though his whereabouts were unknown. In response, Michael had played up his aloof individualism, pretending not to give a shit, but Ray couldn’t help but notice that the television remained on -- muted, but always turned towards Weazel news, as though Michael might be worried about seeing a familiar painted face in need of back-up that Ryan was too headstrong to call in.

Gavin came and went, his entire presence constantly screaming of a controlled, hog-tied chaos. Some nights he’d stay for mere hours, scrambling through the papers he’d yet to officially pin against the board in Michael’s forgotten office before disappearing with his various flash-drives stuffed into his pockets. Other times, he’d stay for days, curled up on the floor as his eyes swarmed over darkened footage and secure servers that listed hundreds of pages of names, numbers, and records. He switched frenziedly from Michael’s desktop to the laptop, his own apparently out of commission.

“What happened to it?” Ray had asked him once, after noticing the vast array of flash-drives and Gavin’s clear annoyance with Michael’s computer's’ operating system. He was worried it had been stolen, apprehended by someone who had caught on to Gavin’s importance and meant to tap into the wealth of knowledge.

“Broken,” Gavin replied offhandedly, and Ray raised an eyebrow.

“What, during a job?”

“Nah, I dropped it,” Gavin responded easily, sliding some of Michael’s miscellaneous paperwork off the desk and onto the floor to better make room for his own stack.

“Gavin, what the fuck--” Michael hissed angrily, watching as the papers fluttered across the floor into a disorganized mess, but Ray interrupted him before the tirade could begin.

“What about your secondary, the thick one?

Gavin took a large gulp of some six dollar antioxidant drink he kept stockpiled in Michael’s fridge and shook his head. “Screen’s cracked.”

Ray paused, looking back at Michael for confirmation of his own assessments, but Michael was still seething about the destruction to his office, whispering idle, meaningless threats under his breath. He kicked some of the papers away from the doorway violently, as though they’d personally offended him by letting Gavin have his way.

Ray spoke slowly, trying to decipher how an individual as smart as Gavin could be so out of sync with his own body. “And it’s cracked because you…”

“Dropped it, yeah. I need a new phone, too,” he said casually, pulling a sleek, top of the line smartphone (screen cracked, of course) from his pocket and passing it to Ray without breaking eye contact from Michael’s computer. “Pick me up one, would you?”

The movement seemed to finally get Michael’s attention, and his eyes slid from the broken phone to Gavin’s impassive face, an incredulous expression winning out over the previous anger.

“You just got that fucking phone, Gavin!” he started, and Ray braced himself as Michael’s voice began to rise in indignation on the phone’s behalf. “You’ve had it for less than a week! BOTH of your laptops are fucking busted and you don’t even have a goddamn phone now?! What to do you, find all your most expensive fucking belongings and juggle them for fucking kicks?! You’re such an IDIOT, Gavin!”

“Michael, please, I’m trying to work,” Gavin plastered out, keeping his face turned towards the screen in front of him as though he were barely aware of Michael’s existence, but Ray could see the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

But that had been at the beginning, when they were running high on the expectations of hope and riding the remaining threads of their combined elation, both from their recent pay and Ray’s initiation. Now, nearly a week later, that feeling was fading, replaced with a stirring discontent, an anxious itch for a resolution, and that ever present feeling of hanging on the precipice before the fall, like they were tip-toeing the edge of the water before the drop-off, so close to barreling down.

But Gavin was still lacking the information they needed, whatever it was. Michael and Ray remained clueless, since the more details they tried to milk from Gavin, the more distracted and flustered he would become. So instead, they satisfied themselves with the snatches of phrases that Gavin would utter in his caffeine induced research (“22nd and Canton, East Downs. Temporary housing? ...No, ex-girlfriend.”), and the stacks of printed paperwork they were told to cross reference.

(“Gavin, this doesn’t make any goddamn sense. You’ve got thirty-four pages of names here, and even _more_ in this stack. These are only like, three weeks apart. What is this bullshit?”

“Hotel registries. Look, the bloke likes class, and it’s no coincidence that his hits all take place within a two mile radius of the Concierge. I _know_ he did those two hits that line up with those dates on the papers, and he wouldn’t have stayed anywhere else during. So just _please_ find any matches so I can get a goddamn alias, okay?”)

The sun was already high in the sky, glaring in through the windows that Gavin insisted they leave open, and Michael was growing more and more agitated every time Gavin would mutter “Just one more thing. That’s it,” something that had happened every hour or so since dawn had broken.

He was pacing now, eyes darting periodically to the television while Ray fiddled with his new phone, downloading music in the honest-to-god legal way, since a fourteen dollar album was now money he wouldn’t even miss. His calm demeanor and patience for work ethic seemed to finally break Michael, who moved to crowd over him, a fiery distemper in his eyes.

“We need to talk, before we get out there,” he said lowly, and Ray averted his eyes from his phone long enough to take in Michael’s expression and proceed with caution, leaning up against the bar while Gavin typed frantically on the kitchen table behind them, oblivious.

“Alright, shoot.”

Michael gave him a once over, and Ray avoided the urge to swallow at being analyzed so shrewdly. He was still getting accustomed to his version of Michael, the stir-crazy, impatient, success-oriented creature that had been reduced to a growling, beset mess without something to steal, shoot, or otherwise engage. He had known Michael for nearly half a year, and leisure in that time had been scarce with the constant struggle of training Ray, building up surplus, and planning their next heist. Now, with Michael stuck waiting with nothing to do in the meantime except fester on his uselessness, he was slowly turning rabid.

“When we get him, you need to follow my lead and not do anything stupid. I won’t be able to focus if I have to be calming you the fuck down.”

Ray hesitated, because he wasn’t an idiot. He knew this was agitation speaking, and while it was borne from a place of honesty, guilt wasn’t how Michael operated, and the aggression he was showing was a textbook cover for his apprehension of having Ray on a job that he couldn’t guarantee the safety of.

“I get it,” he responded quietly, speaking as level as he would if he were trying to talk down a crazed animal. “You won’t need to worry about me. But--” he added, as Michael scoffed, “--I get the kill.”

“We’ll see--” Michael started, completely content on blowing him off, but Ray grabbed his arm roughly and forced his attention back, stirring up the coals that set Michael’s eyes aflame.

“No, we won’t. _I_ get the kill, and that’s the end of it.”

It was the first time Ray had stood up and objectively defied him, and a strange set of emotions passed between them, folded in between one another, caught in the complexity of the unresolved tension that stirred around them like a gravitational pull. Michael’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Ray _swore_ that the atmosphere was heavy enough that Michael was going to lean in and fiercely finish what they’d started back on that helicopter, but Michael only jerked away and out of Ray’s grip, grabbing his car keys and leaving without another word.

The door shut behind Michael with a solid click, separating his negative aura from the simple, tolerant weariness that hovered between Gavin and Ray. The terse silence that followed was broken only by Gavin’s heavy sigh, several moments later.

“He needs to de-stress,” he commented idly, making a final few taps on his keyboard before closing it and pushing it away, relief apparent in the way his body slackened and his shoulders relaxed.

“Are you offering? Because you’d know how better than anyone,” Ray quipped, immediately surprised at the pettiness he was able to lace it with. Maybe Michael’s moods got to him more than he realized. He shot Gavin an apologetic glance, opening his mouth to quickly explain off the unexpected snark, but Gavin only grinned mischievously, interrupting Ray’s excuses before they could even begin.

“You guys haven’t done anything, have you?” Gavin asked, a teasing disbelief wrapping the edges of his words, as though Ray’s inadvertent confession was a thrilling surprise. “All that time you’ve been here, every night, and neither of you took the opportunity?”

“It’s not like _that_ ,” Ray tried, but it sounded like bullshit the moment it formed in his throat, and Gavin rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Yeah, sure--”

“--Look, there hasn’t exactly been a lot of time, alright? All this training, I’d pass out almost immediately once we got back here. And, I don’t know,” he paused, running a hand over the back of his neck and trying to avoid Gavin’s knowing gaze. “There’s so much I didn’t know, you know? I just wanted…”

“The right time?” Gavin supplied, and Ray momentarily fooled himself into believing the man was trying to be helpful, until he nodded in agreement and Gavin laughed quietly in response. “Because, of course, no time is better than bleeding out in a helicopter after getting gut-shot, right?”

Ray scoffed, slightly embarrassed in ways he knew he didn’t need to be, and he couldn’t curb his response before it was out of his mouth. “Hey, fuck you, alright? Not all of us are okay with displaying our conquests in the middle of a hallway at our _girlfriend’s_ house.”

Gavin looked confused for a moment, his head cocked like the curious animal he was, and Ray allowed himself a moment of relief that Gavin had _no_ recollection of that particular memory.

Of course, Ray was a fool, and far too quickly a wide grin cracked the Brit’s facial features.

“Oh, _right_. That party, ages ago. I had forgotten you saw that.” When Ray only glowered, unsure how to reply, Gavin threw his hands up in surrender, a smug innocence plastered across his face. “Hey, I know what it looks like, but I swear, we’ve never, you know… all the way.”

Ray was almost ashamed at the way his stomach unclenched and the air in his chest felt lighter. It was a plain, honest answer to the question he knew he would never have asked, despite how it tormented him, and as much as Gavin’s blunt honesty had grated on his nerves, Ray was finally appreciating how secure it could make a friendship’s trust. Feeling a bit more comfortable in Gavin’s conviction, as well as the lucky bonus of Michael’s absence, he gently pried for more.

“Why do you do it, then? You know it frustrates him, and you’re not looking to get anything out of it, so why?”

He was sure Gavin would get quiet at such a personal question, perhaps lean forwards in an attempt to keep things low-key, but he responded as he did with _all_ things -- with a friendly nonchalance and indiscriminate acceptance.

“Honestly? Because he likes it.”

That was clearly not the answer Ray was expecting, so Gavin huffed a laugh at his expression, stretched out his stiff arm muscles, and continued.

“Look, I know he makes a big fuss about it afterwards, but he’s fine with it at the time, obviously. I just… I can’t help it,” he added softly, and for the first time, he even looked a little guilty. Not repentant, obviously, but guilty, and his voice turned fond. “Michael, he’s just… he’s such a wild thing, isn’t he? Always pristine and in control and projecting that sort of -- _dominance_ \-- everywhere he goes. He’s a little warrior. But if _you’re_ assertive? He just loses it. It’s like he melts into it. He absolutely _loves_ it, and I can’t help but to want to see him that way, like he’s been tamed, you know?”

Ray’s mind flashed back to that night, when he peered through the dim, darkened lights of the hallway to meet Michael’s eyes, heavy and dazed. Gavin’s thigh had been pressing against the zipper of Michael’s pants, authoritative in all the ways Michael himself usually displayed, and he had one of Michael’s arms pinned while the other hand was fisted hard in Michael’s hair.

Ray had chalked it up to drugs, or alcohol. That unfocused, glassy look in Michael’s eyes and Gavin’s uncharacteristic superiority were easily explained away by the copious amounts of party favors, and Ray hadn’t given thought to it being anything else. But Gavin and Michael, their systems were much more attuned to dealing with that influx of illegal substances, and they couldn’t have been nearly as high as Ray, who had already begun his come down.

An unexpected pang of arousal and revelation passed through Ray as he played over the image of Michael urgently fisting Gavin’s shirt as soon as he had seen Ray. Would Michael maybe have had that same reaction sober? And just _maybe,_ could that clench of fingers into fabric have not been from Gavin’s ministrations, but from catching sight of _Ray_ while simultaneously being pressed against the wall?

Gavin was watching him work through the new information with a patient smirk, content to lay the lingering thoughts of recklessness out on the table and take a step back, like he’d never been there at all. When Ray finally looked up and met his eyes, questions he’d never give life to resting on the edges of his tongue, Gavin only situated himself into a more comfortable position, pulled his sunglasses down over his closed eyes, and mumbled, “Food for thought.”

Ray resigned himself to being satisfied with the answers he got, because Gavin was clearly done with the conversation. He picked up one of the stacks that needed to be cross referenced with a slightly unsteady hand, unsure if he wanted to curse the hacker, or praise him. Now that the idea was in his head, the intimate knowledge that Gavin would have only given him if he intended Ray to _utilize_ it, the resulting thoughts were inescapable.

He tried to focus on the dozens of names, printed out in a slightly jumbled mess, but he couldn’t remove the flashing images of Michael from his mind, when he’d been unfocused from the beginning throes of arousal. He couldn’t help the influx of ideas, carefully construed by the imagination that insisted on torturing him, playing out a scene he’d never believed would’ve been a possibility:

Michael shoved against the wall, weak and unguarded. His normal, omnipresent defenses were shattered as Ray held him down, undoing Michael’s belt to sneak his hand beneath the waistband of those tarnished jeans, wrapping his fingers around the heat he found there. He jerked slowly, content to watch the enrapturing mixture of bliss and need flow across Michael’s face as the redhead exhaled sharply in surprise, completely at Ray’s mercy.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to get his own interested dick under control as it pressed annoyingly into his pants, and Gavin snorted in laughter at the sound of him maneuvering his body into a better position to fix his issue.

“Problems, Ray?” Gavin murmured, eyes still shut, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

Unsure if more blood was rushing to his cheeks or his dick, Ray grunted out a stiff “Shut the fuck up,” and went back to pouring over paperwork. He was both begging for Michael’s return, if only to avoid Gavin’s annoying habits, while still praying that Michael would keep himself out for a moment longer, at least to give Ray enough time to stop reeling from the expectations he’d just given himself.

 

///

 

Michael returned almost two hours later without fanfare, his face passive and the bowstrings of his muscles loosened and uncoiled. He tossed his keys on the counter and pulled out a hefty burrito from a bag he carried, holding it out to Ray without meeting his eyes, and Ray was well enough versed in Michael’s body language to recognize a bid for complacency. He took it without question, feeling the tense pull between them dissipate into something more recognizable, where the heat was from unresolved personal matters rather than anger.

“What happened to him?” Michael asked, motioning with his own burrito that was still cradled in its greased stained wrapper to where Gavin was passed out in the kitchen chair, body still flopped in exactly the same position he had been in when he tormented Ray with personal information.

“I drugged his drink,” Ray responded lightly, taking the first bite of an overly meaty breakfast. “But it was all organic, so he didn’t even notice.”

Michael snorted, unwrapping his own food loudly in a poorly disguised attempt to bother the sleeping Gavin. “Well, I’m glad you care about his preferences.”

“Will he even eat that?” Ray asked, motioning towards the bag where the third burrito waited.

Michael scoffed and threw himself onto the couch next to Ray, food puffing out one side of his cheek in mid-chew. “He will once he realizes there’s nothing premade in the fridge for him to eat. The little shit can’t survive without catering or delivery.”

“Such a fragile thing,” Ray agreed, mocking a croon into his voice. “Seems strange we let him outside.”

“Gavin’s surprisingly good at not getting shot,” Michael admitted. “I don’t know if it’s because he’s lucky, or because he runs the fuck away, but he hasn’t _once_ been shot, and if it does happen, it’ll probably be by me.”

Ray only shook his head, amused, and they fell into an easy silence, watching the news coverage of police botching the attempted takedown of a known prison escapee. The atmosphere was comfortable again. Michael was noticeably less unbalanced than he had been two hours previous, when his fists had clenched against his sides and his body was radiating impatience and nerves that were shot to hell.

Ray understood. His own pulse skyrocketed the more he thought about their eventual hit, a personal endeavor that Ray was always coherently aware was costing Gavin sleep, time, and resources. And Michael? Fuck, he could barely stomach the thought of Michael accompanying him only to get hurt, or worse--

So yeah, he understood. And because of that, he understood Michael’s apprehension way more than Michael likely realized. Ray was afraid, he was hesitant, but it was all tucked beneath the security of knowing that Michael could handle himself; he’d been doing this for years, and that practiced efficiency had awarded him the assurance of his own safety in situations much more dire than this.

But Ray? The last -- and _only_ \-- time Ray had been out on a job that didn’t require him hanging back as a sniper, he’d crumbled in an abandoned warehouse, succumbed to a panic attack that had only been placated by Michael’s stern assurances and that rare, treasured skin contact. Not to mention he’d missed his first shot, which would have put them all in danger if Geoff hadn’t accurately predicted his fuck-up.

Michael was relying on him, and only him, to watch his back. Hell, he’d be tense too.

And Michael, as always, seemed to be on the same plane of thought as him, and carefully crumpled his wrapper into a small ball, looking unusually contrite. “Hey, listen. About earlier--”

Ray opened his mouth to cut him off, to tell him it was fine before that awkward apology that felt so jagged and sharp to hear could pass from Michael’s lips, but the redhead shut him down with a swift glare.

“No -- shut up, okay? I meant what I said about following my lead. I know this is your gig, but you’ve got fuck-all for experience, and you’ll be a mess when you see him. I don’t want you to go flying off the handle and try to chase this guy down as soon as you see him. We do it my way, or we don’t do it at all. Agreed?”

Ray nodded mutely. He knew he was a sarcastic little shit, but he gave respect where it was due, and if Michael was going to risk his safety to help Ray with a personal conquest that he had very little, if anything, to gain from it... Well, he’d shut his mouth and listen.

“That being said,” Michael started, and Ray was surprised to see his face flash with the smallest twinges of regret. “I hear you, about being the one to kill him. I don’t know why I fought you on that, I’m just…. Frazzled or some shit, I don’t know. But you’re right. This is your thing, and you need to be the one to take him out.”

Ray nodded, gratefulness blossoming through his chest. He was slowly learning that having patience for Michael’s mood swings would always pay out in the end, and he was more than happy to let the anger ebb and flow in these situations until Michael was human enough to reason with.

“Thanks, man.”

Michael shrugged, caught in that moment of inescapable, genuine gratitude that he hated being subjected to, and threw his crumpled wrapper at Gavin’s sleeping form, muttering “Just make sure he knows why you’re there, Ray.”

Gavin startled awake before Ray could reply, designer sunglasses knocked askew from where Michael had pegged him, and his face instantly morphed from bitchy anger to childish glee as he spotted the abandoned bag on the table.

“Ohh, did you bring me something, boi? My little Michael?” he warbled in that distinctly ‘Gavin’ dialect, pulling the bag towards him with all humiliation forgotten.

Michael only smirked, watching as Gavin clumsily examined his free food, and Ray felt a strange fondness wash over him the longer he watched the exchange. Michael was a lot of things, things Ray was still learning as each day brought a stirring of new events and new emotional responses, but each one was something remarkable, a piece of that never-ending puzzle that Ray was grateful just to glimpse.

He didn’t know Michael’s birthday. He didn’t know his middle name, his favorite color, or any of that textbook knowledge that seemed so important when he was younger. What he did know, though, was Michael’s penchant for sticking his Red Bull’s in the freezer for thirty minutes, so they’d be slightly icy. He knew that Michael went on cleaning frenzies at seven in the morning, blasting a bizarre mix of classic rock and electronica through the penthouse while Ray passively ignored him in favor of the Xbox. He knew that Michael preferred turkey over ham, he loved shitty B sci-fi movies, and he was definitely more of a dog person.

He knew that Michael didn’t drink alone, and that he’d call for company the moment Ray saw the distinctive hollowed look in his eyes, like he hadn’t been able to outrun his own miserable past that day. He knew Ray knew, but it stayed sacred and unmentioned between them. He knew that Michael made an anonymous donation of five thousand dollars every month to the children’s shelter where he’d spent a small chunk of his youth. He knew that Michael was always aware of everything around him, every job a trap, every pedestrian a possible hitman.

And Ray knew that Michael trusted him, despite what every bone in his body must have been screaming at him to be wary of.

“What’s the news, Gavvers?”

Michael’s words jolted Ray out the temporary coma he’d been slipping into more and more the past week. Luckily, his company hadn’t seemed to notice Ray’s departure from the the physical plane, with Gavin chewing happily while Michael watched him expectantly, eyes still jumping back to the television now and again.

Gavin swallowed thickly. “His name’s Sawyer--”

“--Dumb name,” Ray interrupted, and Michael sniggered.

Gavin shot him a bemused, condescending look before continuing. “...Dunno the full name, but that’s not really important, is it? He’s gone up in the world recently -- seems the guy he used to work for got napped by the cops, and he took his place. Less petty crime, like stealing from pedestrians,” he shot Ray a significant look, “and more of hits on rival gangs to expand the territory. He’s still pretty low on the chain, nowhere near high enough to earn any backlash, so it should be easy enough.”

“Location?” Michael asked curiously, picking at his nail, and Ray could have laughed at how casual it all was.

“Old shipping warehouse off of Senora Road.”

Michael paused, looking up to stare Gavin down, but the hacker was diligently ignoring Michael’s quest for eye contact.

“Senora Road, Gavin? As in, La Fuenta Blanca?”

Ray’s heart clenched at the warning in Michael’s throat, and Gavin immediately tried to pacify the situation with an unconvincing eyeroll. “It’s not like that--”

“Is this a Madrazo hit, Gav? Cause I swear to god if we get Geoff involved in that fucking mess, after he’s stayed out of it for so long--”

“No!” Gavin interrupted earnestly. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. But this guy is _nothing,_ Michael, I swear it. Martin doesn’t even know the guy exists.”

Michael remained silent, studying Gavin’s expression like he could find all those missing words inside of it, and Ray cleared his throat. “You’re uh, throwing out a lot of Spanish words here, and I’m still lost. Anyone want to fill me in?”

Michael broke his eye contact and sighed, rubbing his temples. “Martin Madrazo runs the biggest cartel in Los Santos. La Fuenta Blanca is basically his five star fucking drug mansion, and he’s got more hired guns than any other gang in the area. They’re fucking untouchable. And if this hit is on an associate--”

“--it’s _not_ \--”

“Gavin, shut up. I’m sure as fuck not going to take your word for it, because if Madrazo finds out that this was us, and if he _values_ this guy? We’re fucked. Geoff is fucked. That alliance we have that keeps us from being liquidized in a fucking barrel would be blown to shit.”

A heavy silence fell over the party, with Gavin looking petulant at Michael’s dismissal. Ray was studying Michael’s posture, folded in on itself as he bent over and continued to rub his temples.

“Okay. I’m just gonna call Juan.”

“Good,” Gavin snapped, “You do that.”

“Juan?” Ray piqued curiously as Michael pulled out his phone and started scrolling through contacts.

“Madrazo’s guy -- our contact with the cartel. He’s Martin’s second in command, and if anyone knows what they’re inclined to give a shit about on any given day, it’s him.

He put the phone up to his ear, hardly trying to hide the skepticism he was glowering Gavin with. Gavin only stuck his tongue out childishly in response.

Michael’s attention suddenly switched to his phone, and he leaned forward in his seat. “Juan! Hey, buddy. Yeah, it’s Michael… Jones. From the Fakes?.... Yeah, Mogar, that’s the one,” Michael laughed, looking mildly embarrassed. “...What? Did I--? Oh, yeah, that was me. It was beautiful, wasn’t it? Took a shit-ton of C4…. Hey man, let me stop you for a minute. This is a courtesy call.” The mood must have shifted on the line, because Michael’s face became pensive as he listened. “Look, I’m here with some crew, let me put you on speaker.”

He tapped a button and set the phone down on the table in front of Gavin, and Ray moved from the couch silently to get closer.

“Morning, Juan,” Gavin chirped dutifully.

“Gavino!” The man named Juan cried happily from Michael’s tinny speakers. “How’s that Bati treating you, my friend? That evidence locker raid, it was no joke, yeah?”

“Rides like a dream, Juan. I owe you,” Gavin smiled, and Ray couldn’t place whether the warmth in Gavin’s voice was genuine, or fabricated. But again, having a smooth tongue and the charisma of liquid honey was a forte for Gavin, and according to Michael, it had saved his ass way more than body armor ever had.

Juan scoffed good-naturedly over the phone. “Nonsense, it was a gift. You know, we could always use a man like you to wash our money for us. Laundering takes a special talent Gavino, and you’d be welcome on our team.”

“I appreciate the offer, as always, but I make a lucrative living here with the Fakes. Geoff treats me very well,” Gavin replied softly, the ghost of a smile on his face, and that, Ray knew, wasn’t any stretch of the truth.

“Does this business you have, does it not concern Ramsey?” Juan asked, his accent heavy but his words honest and curious.

“This is a personal matter, Juan,” Michael interrupted. “Geoff isn’t heading it.”

“Just you and Gavino? This isn’t another stunt like Vangelico’s, is it? You idiots got lucky that time, but you need a third man.”

“We’ve got one,” Michael supplied, leaving it intentionally open-ended, and Ray tensed, hoping he wouldn’t have to speak. Tact wasn’t exactly his profession.

“Hmm. Wouldn’t happen to be the same man you refused to trade to the Vagos? They are very angry about that, mi amigo.”

“They can suck our collective dicks,” Michael interrupted, a flare of anger rising through him, and Juan laughed.

“I agree! If the rumors I’ve heard are true, that’s a hell of a shot you very nearly lost, and you would be a fool to let him go. Now, tell me the job.”

Ray’s face flushed at the blatant compliment, and he pushed back his nerves to speak. He was part of this, and he needed to display that. Michael caught his movement, understood, and nodded for him to take the floor.

“It’s a personal vendetta,” Ray explained, his words sounding stronger than he imagined they would. “...It’s _my_ personal vendetta.”

The line went silent for a moment, and Juan’s voice lost the comfortable familiarity it had granted both Gavin and Michael, but it did remain respectful.

“And is this you, the Brownman? The luckiest hijo de puta that ever lived, eh?”

“That’d be me,” Ray agreed, putting the alarm of hearing his own street cred and codename fed back at him like he were worthy of it. Like it was _known_ outside of their six-man crew.

“Well, color me fucking intrigued, my friends. Is it one of my men you look to take out?”

Ray was relieved to hear that he didn’t sound even remotely miffed about the potential loss of a hired gun. He glanced between Gavin and Michael, pleading for one of them to take the lead before he fucked up the good thing they had going.

Gavin took him up on it, since Michael seemed content to smile serenely in Ray’s general direction, as if he were entirely pleased with the situation.

“We believe it is. I don’t have a full name, just ‘Sawyer’--”

There was an interrupting scoff from Juan at the unmistakably _whiteboy_ name, and Ray felt an amusing sense of solidarity, before Gavin continued.

“Looks like the bloke took over running one of your warehouses on Senora. 4100 Senora. Ring any bells?”

“4100 is not one of mine,” Juan replied, sounding confused, and Gavin shot Michael an unmistakeable _I fucking told you_ look. “It is an inactive safe-house. Do you mean to tell me I have a stowaway on my fucking property? Gavino?”

“Looks like it,” Gavin hummed politely, pulling open his laptop and tapping several keys in quick succession. “I tracked his pick-up to right outside the bloody door.”

There was an intake of breath on the line, the sound of someone coming to a quick realization, and Ray unconsciously leaned forward to ensure he didn’t miss Juan’s next words.

“I _know_ what this is,” Juan sneered. “Sawyer was the name of that shit-faced kid who rolled around with that fool Ricardo. He wanted initiation into Madrazo and was offing people in our name. _Our_ name, Gavino! Unacceptable. He wasn’t worth sending my men after, so I set him up with a fake job and led him straight to the cops.”

“Seems Sawyer wasn’t caught,” Gavin drolled, sounding very near boredom as he gazed at his laptop with slightly absent look in his eyes. “He’s picked up where Ricardo left off, taken out a few stragglers that wander too close to the territory, and set up shop on your property. Probably thinks you’ll be pleased with him. He’s got a few blokes with him though, doubt they know he isn’t certified with you. If I were to guess, the rinsy little pricks are already your men that are trying something a little brazen to get moved up”

Juan let out a string of curses in his native tongue before sighing. “Alright, it seems we have a common enemy. Let me make you a deal, Fakes. You take out this pendejo, and Madrazo will turn a blind eye to the men you take out with him. In addition, you claim whatever that motherfucker has on him. Madrazo runs a clean business, and we do not need our products tainted with scum like this.”

“Juan, you’re a hell of a guy, you know that?” Michael smiled, throwing Gavin a significant glance.

“Hey, that’s a good fucking attitude mi amigo. You remember that, yeah? Gavino, you call me afterwards, tell me how it goes and where I need to send a team to burn the bodies. And Brownman… hey, it was good to meet you. You watch out for those Vagos, though, yeah? Madrazo employs many Vagos, and they are not pleased. Word spread fast, my friend. ...You have started a fire, Jones. I hope you can put it out.”

“Cheers, mate,” Gavin concluded, with Michael adding a pensive, “See ya, Juan,” afterwards before reaching forward and ending the call.

Ray hesitated, before asking, “We uh, we going to talk about that fucking ominous goodbye, or nah?”

Michael waved him off. “The Vagos are idiots. The only reason they have so much territory is because they let any fuckhead with a gun join up, and they’ll never be anything more than a disorganized fucking mess of kids half strung out on coke, thinking they own the place. I’m more concerned about their breeding habits than them crying about how they lost you.”

Gavin cocked his head in agreement, but Ray wasn’t convinced. Michael was exceptionally talented at covering his insecurities with easy dismissal, and Ray didn’t miss the way he refused to meet anyone’s eyes during his diatribe against the Vagos. Gavin’s silence only fueled Ray’s concern, since Gavin seemed to survive solely off of disagreeing just to rile Michael up until the argument ended up with both of them on the floor in a half-serious brawl.

“Come on,” Michael exclaimed, picking up his phone from the table and motioning for Ray and Gavin to follow him. “Let’s get this show on the road before I fucking die of boredom.”

 

///

 

Gavin adamantly refused to accompany them once they pulled up outside of Senora Road, sounding mortified that Michael would even ask.

“It’s going to be a _mess_ in there, Michael! I’m not getting gunked on over something you can handle without me. It’s just two or three guys.”

“Fine,” Michael had rolled his eyes, shouldering open the door irritably as Ray followed his lead, adjusting his earpiece. “One less idiot for me to watch out for.”

It was bordering on dusk by the time he and Michael approached the warehouse, leaving Gavin happily waiting in the car. They had considered stopping by the crew’s headquarters down in Idlewood for some body armor and extra ammunition, but quickly decided against it. Checking into the armory would immediately alert Geoff’s phone, which would immediately alert _Geoff,_ and none of them felt like explaining their outing to a disgruntled boss that was trying to enjoy a vacation.

So Ray had nothing except his pistol and the KA-BAR tucked carefully into his jeans as he let Michael lead the way towards the dilapidated door, watching as the fading sun glinted off Michael’s well-loved Springfield XD. His heart was lodged somewhere around his throat, but an alarming _excitement_ was tearing through him as he crouched down next to Michael against the concrete walls.

“Alright,” Michael began, checking his clip and watching as Ray did the same to his matching Springfield 1911. “Sawyer’s got these big guys with him because he’s a fucking busta, right? So he’s gonna book it as soon as we break down the door, I guarantee you. There’s no exit to this place, so he’s gonna head up the stairs and try to get the drop on you.”

“Not you?” Ray questioned lightly, trying to listen for signs of conversation through the cracked and grungy wall.

Michael shook his head. “Nah. I’m gonna handle the guys on the bottom, and I want you to go straight for him. If he doesn’t run, great, then we’ll take them all out at once. But he _will_ run, Ray. You clear on the plan?”

Ray hesitated, shifting in discomfort. “We don’t know how many guys--”

“Gavin says there’s no more than three, with the addition of fuckhead. And we’ll be taking them by surprise.”

Ray’s lack of reassurance must have been written plainly across his face, because Michael nudged him none too gently. “Hey, don’t fucking do that. This is gonna go flawlessly, right? We got this.”

Ray nodded, and he tried to push down the bile that had risen in his throat from some horrible combination of fear and exhilaration. He swallowed heavily and listened to Michael countdown softly, picturing Sawyer’s face in his head so as to quickly identify him. Michael’s body was a comforting heat next to him, and he was woe to leave the security it granted him, even if meant he’d forfeit what he came here for. Instantly, he thought of why he was here, and Andrew’s laugh and Liz’s smile was suddenly swimming in his field of vision, lending a fury to rear inside of him, poignant and unavoidable.

The man that had killed them was inside this building, and Ray had been waiting for this moment for six fucking months. There’s no way he was backing out.

Time slowed as Michael’s voice faded out, his movements fluid and practiced as he kicked the door open violently, pistol already raised to eye-level. Ray moved next to him, avoiding every other sensory input except the one that would lead him to Sawyer. He didn’t hear Michael’s crazed, elated yell; he didn’t see the widen eyes of the shocked men that were _not_ his target. The sound of Michael’s pistol firing was muted and deep, and he quickly found Sawyer throwing his hands up to protect his head and scrambling up the staircase as Michael’s bullet tore through the neck of the man below him.

“Fuck!” Ray cursed, immediately tearing after him as Michael’s next bullet imbedded in the thick flesh of a second man. Ray took the stairs two at a time, the bottom of Sawyer’s boots mere feet away from him as Sawyer threw a curse in his direction, fumbling around the waistband of his pants for a weapon Ray _knew_ he didn’t have.

They had nearly reached the top, mere seconds after busting open the door, when he heard the unmistakable sound of Michael’s pistol being thrown to the floor before it could fire again. The third man had been too close, less surprised than the others, and had gotten the drop on Michael due to Ray’s lack of coverage. Michael’s cry of rage and pain carried up the stairs, but Ray refused to look back, overcome by his wrath for the man before him and his assurances that Michael could handle anything that fuckhead down below could throw at him. _Especially_ if he were now armed with only his fists.

He managed to grab the leg of Sawyers pants as they reached the top, sending the man toppling down _hard_ onto the concrete above. He kicked out at Ray and Ray snapped his hand back before his wrist could be broken, and Sawyer scrambled up and forward towards a table that held a few pounds of coke and a single, loaded pistol.

 _Fuck that,_ Ray thought wildly, and aimed.

The bullet tore through the muscle of Sawyer’s leg, exactly where Ray had meant to hit, and the man gave an animalistic cry that wrenched a heavy sense of satisfaction through Ray’s system. He could hear the sounds of a struggle below him, a string of curses that accompanied the deft sound of flesh meeting flesh, but he ignored them and approached Sawyer with the cocky air of someone that had been doing this for a _lifetime._

“Please!” the man spit out, drugged-out eyes darting across the room for help as Ray moved closer. “I’ll give you the coke man, whatever you want, just get the fuck _away from me_!”

“You remember a man and a woman,” Ray asked lowly, fire filling his chest the more he looked at the pathetic pile of shit in front of him. “Standing on the corner of Stockton Boulevard around 8:15 on a Thursday night, seven months ago?”

The sound of his own voice terrified him, but he couldn’t dial it back. He couldn’t take the cold bite out of his words or mellow the heat in his gaze. Sawyer scooted back, grimacing in pain as he clutched his bleeding leg.

“Hey man, I don’t know fuck about that. I ain’t about that. I ain’t--”

Ray raised his gun again, _furious_ , and Sawyer cursed loudly before trying to make a final run for his pistol, managing to knock his fingers against the end table hard enough to tip it over, but he never made it further than that. Ray had lunged forward and dug his foot into the oozing wound on Sawyer’s calf, pressing it awkwardly against the ground and feeling the ominous bend of bone underneath him. The gun fell from the table and bounced loudly across the concrete.

Sawyer cried out in pain again, his face smashed into the dust-riddled concrete, and something wild and crazed came over Ray at the sight. At the unmistakable knowledge of his own power, his ability to avenge the people he loved. He placed his own pistol carefully in the back of his pants and leaned down, pulling Sawyer to his feet by the collar of his shirt. With his other hand, he pulled his knife from his belt and pressed it against the neck of the disgusting man that had murdered what had once been his only two friends in the world.

“Andrew Vasquez and Elizabeth Cobb. You killed them seven months ago,” Ray spat, and the man babbled helplessly, trying to free himself from Ray’s iron grip. Ray held on strong, positioning joints just as Michael had taught him, keeping Sawyer’s arms bent horribly close to the breaking point with his left hand while his right pressed the blade further against the tender flesh of Sawyer’s throat.

“They were twenty-four years old,” he hissed lowly, “And they were in love. You tried to rob her, tried to take the jewelry he had bought her, and you _killed_ them, right in the middle of the fucking street. Like they were animals.”

Sawyer shuddered beneath him, but his pleadings had quieted, and Ray knew he remembered. He knew Sawyer was picturing their faces as he felt Ray’s knife pressing against his jugular.

“I can’t bring them back,” Ray continued, overwhelmed with the power he had given himself, overcome with the bloodlust of vengeance, and he wanted to _hurt._ He wanted to make Sawyer pay for what he had ripped from the world. “I can’t bring them back, but I can give them peace,” he started, then stopped, reconsidering. He tilted his head to see the first trickle of blood running down Sawyer’s neck, to feel how it consumed him. He thought he might finally understand what the fuck Michael had meant, all those months ago.

_“It’s so good, man. I can’t even describe it. It’s everything, and I can’t live without it.”_

He laughed lightly, both delirious and yet incredibly focused. “Actually, fuck that. I’m here for my _own_ peace, you motherfucker.”

And with that, he slid the thick blade of his KA-BAR across the fragile, thin flesh of Sawyer’s throat, the hot flow of blood coating his fingers before he could release the man and let him drop to his knees. Sawyer’s hands shook, reaching up to fumble at the gaping edges of his neck, his eyes focusing in and out on the gun that lay only feet away from where the blood was splattering across the ground.

It was over in an instant; Sawyer fell forward and collapsed, still groping for his pistol, bloody fingers clawing at the concrete, trying to get the purchase he needed to move his rapidly failing body... and then he was still. Those fingers twitched, nerve endings firing, coasting, and dying across the skin that would soon grow cold and abandoned. Those red-rimmed eyes hollowed, devoid of something undefinable, and Ray watched with an icy indifference as the man’s body crumpled from within, blood flowing steadily from the neat, open slice in his throat.

Ray had only a moment to recognize what he’d done before his attention was torn from him by an urgent scrambling to his left. Michael came stumbling up the stairs, hand nursing a small wound that had torn the collar of his shirt out, but otherwise very alive. His body was covered in a fine layer of dust from the rumble he took with the guy on the first floor, stripped clean only by the sweat that had streaked down from his mess of hair as he turned to look from Ray to the body beneath him.

“God _damn,_ dude,” Michael breathed in relief, his chest heaving, and Ray knew he must have sprinted up the stairway, barreling past the limits his body had tried to impose on him in order to find Ray, to help him, to get _back_ to him. “You good?”

Ray didn’t answer. He couldn’t. There was wildfire festering under his skin, begging him to move, to _act,_ and every heartbeat pulsed far more adrenaline through his system than blood. He felt crazed from the kill, and his fingers tightened and flexed in those precious moments where he gazed Michael down, taking in the mess of a human he was, the power he had given to Ray, and what Ray had done with it.

His thoughts were savage, and he sifted through the unbelievable madness that centered him, knowing that he’d be going home with this man, shaking and covered in sticky, tacky blood that ruined their high-end clothes. He _knew_ that he’d be within feet of this amazing fucking man for an infinite amount of time, pressed close enough to feel the chaotic energy that Ray craved to take, to drown in.

He knew this wouldn’t be the last time they stood together in some nondescript warehouse, rifles shouldered and their targets bleeding beneath them while they stared each other down with laughter and madness on their lips, each waiting for the other to take what was so freely being given.

He was overwhelmed with what he had become. With what Michael had made him into.

In this moment, Los Santos was his -- this whole goddamn _city_ was his -- and Ray was going to take everything he ever wanted from it.

Michael only watched with startled eyes as Ray dropped his knife and moved towards him, his shoes scuffing on the concrete while he made his approach, hungry and single-minded. And despite their affinity, Michael’s years of abuse had him tensed, his guard raised as Ray bracketed him in against the wall, one hand grabbing at those _god_ damn hipbones that Ray had been achingly admiring for months, surviving off of the snatches of skin he could see when Michael’s shirt rode a little too high.

Ray hesitated for the briefest of moments, taking one pure, elongated second to just breath Michael in. To taste the electricity in the air between them, the adrenaline that was peaking them to new highs no drug would ever touch, the smell of leather and gun oil and something smokey that Ray had begun to unknowing use as a trail to find his way home. Brown eyes were opened wide in anticipation, cheekbones smeared with blood and blossoming a fiery red and purple bruise that Ray _loved_ to see, knowing what a rage it must have put Michael in to be hit back, unashamed of how hard it made him to picture the resulting fury. The presence of Michael before him, fingers bloodied from the jaw he cracked open, was too much, and he couldn’t help the growl in the back of his throat as he grabbed Michael’s chin and initiated the kiss he’d been starved for.

Michael, for all his machismo and bravado, _let_ Ray take the lead, parting his lips just enough to let out a low, surprised sound that so wholly encompassed how Ray felt that he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pressing his body fully against Michael’s and gripping bruises into that beautiful, scarred flesh beneath him. Michael gasped, further opening his mouth for Ray’s intentions, and when Ray’s free hand trailed up the side of Michael’s cheek to grip tightly to his hair, maneuvering the redhead to exactly where Ray wanted him, Michael _melted_ into him, shaking fingers desperately trying to grasp at Ray’s arms, fisting the fabric at his shoulder.

Ray was lost within himself. Every movement that Michael made against him shot a spark of wonder and _need_ across his spine. It was slowly breaching his hovering incredulity and amplifying the heat of want, low in his gut. Part of him was still reeling, unable to come to terms with the crescendo that was playing out before him, half-assured he’d wake up and be fed back into the exquisite misery of normality. It didn’t seem _real_ that the violent, uncontrollable man who broke into his apartment so months ago was now falling apart beneath him, as though he were programmed to feel every swipe of Ray’s tongue like a shock to his system; that the man who was integral to the most notorious gang in west coast was weakly rutting against Ray’s thigh, subdued, tamed, and desperate to be closer, to feel more of him, to tempt Ray of so many things to come.

It was hard to believe that the man who had spent a decade claiming this city at the expense of blood and sanity, the man who wanted for _nothing_ , was finally giving back as much as he was taking, pulling Ray closer like he was the only fucking thing that had ever mattered.

And he didn’t know if it was the wrecked, breathless way that Michael choked out his name, like the cultivation of every sacrilegious pray he’d ever known, or if it was the swell of arousal he could feel pressed against his thigh as Michael bucked against him, the hiss of pleasure-pain on his lips the hottest thing Ray’s ever known, but in that instant, he realized that he could never come back from this moment. It was cemented within him, pivotal to his creation, and whatever demons would come with the territory he was so blinding accepting, whatever alteration he’d taken to his lifespan, well.

 _It’s worth it,_ he thought, biting down into Michael’s lip as he felt fingers dig roughly into his skin, the gasp he breathed in from Michael resonating like pure sin, _It’s all worth it._

He was halfway through unbuckling Michael’s pants when his earpiece made the distinctive crackle of someone turning their mic on, and Ray nearly startled at the blunt reminder of the world around them.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Gavin’s voice whined, drawn out and annoyed, and Ray pulled back just enough to see his alarm mirrored on Michael’s face as Gavin continued, sarcasm thick in their ears. “Look, not that I’m not happy for you lads and whatnot, but you didn’t turn your bloody mics off, and honestly, I don’t want to sit around in the car for an hour listening to you two bump uglies next to a bunch of fresh meat. Save it, yeah?”

Ray wanted to laugh, both at the ludicrousy of the situation, his lingering disbelief, and how Michael looked about two seconds away from yanking his earpiece out and chucking it across the room.

“He’s got a point,” Ray coerced softly, letting his hands linger across Michael’s shoulders before they dropped completely, trying to retain the moment as long as he could, and Michael looked about as irritated with him as he did with Gavin, eyes narrowed and lips bitten red.

Ray withheld the sudden shudder of arousal, knowing that _he_ did that. _He_ made those cupid-bow lips so deliciously swollen, and _he’s_ the reason for the obvious bulge pressing against Michael’s loose jeans.

“Besides,” Ray supplied, desperately trying to keep his voice level, “There’s a lot of blood on you that isn’t yours, and--” he swallowed, steeling himself, trying to hold on to that confidence that had backed Michael into a corner and made him pliant and open and _his_ for the taking, “--For all the places I’m going to put my mouth, you’ll probably want to shower all that off first.”

Gavin’s groan and “fucking _ew”_ went unheard between them, and Ray, surprised at his own daring, watched with rapt fascination as Michael’s eyes flashed hungrily, revelling in the aftermath.

Michael leaned in and kissed him deeply, hot and heavy and full of promise, biting down on Ray’s lip just enough to have him chasing Michael’s retreat with a whine in his throat.

“Fine,” Michael agreed, running his eyes quickly over Ray, as though he would never be satisfied that he had seen it all, before reaching forward and grabbing a hard fistful of Ray’s ass. Ray choked on his surprise, victim to both Michael’s assertiveness and the new rush of blood that re-piqued the interest of his already painfully hard dick, a “ _fuck!_ ” tumbling from his mouth before he could stop it. Michael grinned wolfishly. “But you’re _mine_ when we get back.”

Ray swallowed the _I’ve always been yours_ that had lodged itself in the back of his throat and nodded mutely, watching as Michael smirked one last time before releasing him. He turned to pick up Ray’s discarded knife and tucked it back into his belt, motioning for Ray to grab Sawyer’s pistol and the messenger bag of cash, coke, and weapon contraband that had thankfully avoided the splatter of blood.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here. Gavin, let Juan know the job’s done.”   


///

 

Ray was hyper-aware of everything once they were loaded back into the car. He took in the gleam of chrome and how it so fully enveloped everything Michael loved, from the brazen, devil-may-care insouciance to the wallet-busting taste for exquisite, top of the line arsenals and vehicles. Gavin was chattering wildly in the seat next to him, going through the duffels they’d brought back with them and considering which products to sell to which buyers, but all Ray could hear was the small creak of leather that tightened around Michael’s arms when he moved the steering wheel, flying past cars like they were stationary obstacles.

The agonizingly long drive back downtown gave him ample time to focus on his surroundings, and his stomach bottomed out at each new scrap of evidence that advertised Michael as being just as desperate to get home as he was, that they both felt parched and desperate in ways Ray had never known. The clashing hues of colored lights reflected off Michael’s face, amplifying those boyish freckles that gave a startling, alluring dichotomy against his violent personality. He was talking back to Gavin, a smile in his words that quirked the edges of his mouth, and Ray was lost, too far gone in the perfection laid out before him to understand the world that was still slowly spinning around them.

Outwardly, Michael was calm, casual with his sass and listening intently to Gavin’s ramblings, supplying his own objections and suggestions on what to do with the miniscule haul. But Ray saw the nuances, the tightening of Michael’s hands on the wheel, so unlike the loose-fingered grip he normally displayed; the small shiftings in his seat in a vain effort to get comfortable, as though his thoughts were still back at the warehouse, keeping him hard in his jeans; the way he’d catch Ray looking when they’d finally surrendered to the traffic on the offramp, lingering too long in a gaze that quickly turned fiery, the corner of his still-red lip being drug between his teeth in impatience.

Ray had never been wanted like this before. He’d never been so closely wound around another human being that he was aching to feel them in ways that bordered beyond physical. It was jarring, and his heart rate spiked each mile they grew closer to Michael’s penthouse, knowing what would happen and shivering with the thought of the night that awaited him.

When they finally pulled into the garage, Michael exited immediately, and with the object of his desires finally out of his field of vision, Ray shook himself mentally to find Gavin smiling cheekily next to him.

“So, took my advice then?”

“Yeah,” Ray replied, and was floored to hear how distant and meek his voice sounded. He struggled in vain to come up with anything sarcastic to cover the shock still flooding his system, and he swore to god he was floating a few inches above the ground. “Yeah, thank you. I--”

But Gavin held up his hands to stop the influx of word-vomit Ray was likely to bury him with and opened the door to leave. Ray followed, stumbling slightly in his haste, and righted himself in enough time to see Michael glaring Gavin down and pointing towards the garage exit.

“Leave,” he requested simply, voice back to it’s normal, naturally powerful state.

Gavin snorted. “Well that’s real bloody nice, isn’t it? You find a chance to get your dick sucked and suddenly--”

Michael interrupted him by pulling off a set of keys from the line-up on the wall and shoving them into Gavin’s chest. “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first fucking time, buddy. _Leave._ ”

Gavin’s eyes grew wide as he examined the keyring Michael was surrendering to him. “Oooh, _Michael_ , is this your Gauntlet? Your very first?” He looked over to meet Ray’s eyes, his own shining in mirth. “You must be an _exceptional_ lay if he’s trusting me with--”

“ _LEAVE!”_

“Fine! I’m going! I’ll bring her back tomorrow morning, safe and sound boi, I promise.”

As Gavin happily scrambled over to Michael’s pristine blue and red Gauntlet, Michael motioned for Ray to follow him towards the elevator, throwing a “Call first, dipshit!” at Gavin’s retreating back, eliciting a shiver to crawl up Ray’s shine.

_Fuck. Holy shit. Holy fuck._

Once the elevator doors dinged shut and they began the slow, unbearable climb to the twenty-seventh floor, Michael’s hand crawled up the underside of Ray’s shirt as he used the other to gently press Ray against the mirrored panelling.

“That was the longest drive of my life,” he admitted, his eyes roving across Ray’s lips without a hint of shame. “I’m so fucking hard, it hurts.”

Ray couldn’t stop the small groan that loosened itself from his throat, and he couldn’t find the words to convey to Michael how he felt -- the same, only amplified, tripled, completely overpowering. He grabbed the back of Michael’s neck and pulled him in, initiating a bruising kiss that they projected their unbridled _need_ into, teeth nipping at each other’s lips on just the right side of pain.

 _“Fuck,”_ Ray finally pulled away, turning to bury himself in Michael’s shoulder as the redhead rutted lightly against him, sighing in relief as he caught his breath. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Michael laughed breathlessly, sending a small puff of warm air across Ray’s neck as his hand crawled back to run down Ray’s ass. “Why the fuck not? Too good for the criminal sort, Daddy’s boy?”

The throwback to the nickname further enveloped Ray’s system in disbelief. He struggled, stumbling through making the connection between the Michael that had ground his Springfield hard against Ray’s skull, asking what made him” so fucking special”, to the Michael that was slowly maneuvering Ray’s leg between his, urging him to ride the hard line of Michael’s cock that Ray could feel through the blood-dusted denim.

“Nowhere _near_ good enough for you,” he breathed, a little too blissed out to realize how honest he was being, how emotionally vulnerable he was presenting himself, but Michael took it in stride, voice catching in his throat as Ray pressed down against him, giving them that beautiful, agonizing friction they both craved.

“Considering I’m about to come in my pants like a fucking teenager, I wouldn’t put money on that.”

The bell dinged behind them and Michael groaned in relief, giving Ray one last kiss, dirty and emboldened, before turning away and stepping out into his foyer, giving the entryway a quick, habitual once-over. When Ray lingered behind him, still only half-aware of his surroundings as he watched Michael with a poorly concealed obsession, Michael glared at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Ray was taken aback, disoriented. “Waiting for--”

Michael snapped at him again, but the ferocity was badly hidden behind that wicked, shit-eating smirk. “I got this man, okay? I can’t… I can’t concentrate with you standing there.”

“Well I--”

“I swear to god Ray, if you’re not out of those clothes and in the shower by the time I’m done, I’m seriously going to shoot you. I don’t even care if you’d bleed out on my fucking carpet.”

Ray snorted. “Well good luck. Almost all my blood is currently--”

“GO!”

Ray stifled a laugh and scrambled towards the downstairs shower, nearly tripping over himself in his delirium and haste. His mind was spiraling, still caught in the daze of his own reality. As he nudged open the door to the bathroom with his shoulder, his arms preoccupied with pulling off his sticky, bloody shirt, flashbacks rammed their way through his subconscious: The first time he had showered here, so many months ago, after having stitched Michael up while avoiding the distracting curve of muscles across his back; how Michael had comforted him here after the Parker assassination, when Ray was puking into the shower after waking up to the image of gore-splattered walls; how he’d been too stubborn to ask for Michael’s help after his injury, showering with weak, shaky legs to find fresh towels had been set out for him and the bedsheets changed.

Ray smiled and shucked out of his pants, wild with hope, dazed with anticipation, praying to any god that would listen that this wouldn’t be the last memory to be made here. When he was fully disrobed and underneath the hot spray, his muscles relaxed and some of the shakes rid themselves from his body. The more blood and grime he washed from his skin, the more at ease he became, until the adrenaline that had been coursing thickly through his veins mellowed out, leaving nothing but the faint, yet poignant thrill of their illicit night and the arousal that still hung heavy under his skin.

He pulled at his dick, still hard against his stomach, just to take the edge off as water dripped from his hair to meet the pink-tinged spiral that was quickly disappearing down the drain. He rested his head against the tile, relaxing in the heat as he heard Michael open the bathroom door, a small curse on his lips as he tripped slightly in the frantic effort to remove his shoes. When he had finally disrobed and joined Ray in the shower, Ray had enough control over himself again to raise an eyebrow at Michael’s bloodied, bruised skin.

“You’re disgusting,” he teased, letting a hint of elitism linger on the edge of his voice.

“Shut the fuck up, Ray,” Michael responded, like not a goddamn thing had changed, before he pushed Ray out of the water’s main trajectory to start hastily scrubbing at the grime and dust that coated him.

“What’s the rush?”

Michael glared at him through the spray, entirely unamused. “Sooner I get this done, the sooner I can fuck you into the mattress.”

Ray’s cocky attitude was sapped from him at the blatant assurance, and he swallowed thickly. _So that’s how this is going, then._ He wasn’t surprised -- hell, he hadn’t even considered who’d be taking who, but as his eyes roved over the thick muscles of Michael’s arms, the dominance he projected and _owned_ in every room, the unbridled hunger and passion that sharpened his eyes into that fiery abyss, well, Ray realized he didn’t have any fucking problem with the arrangement.

But Michael was still too tense, too taut and rigid, and before he could second guess himself, Ray reached out and did what he’d been begging himself to avoid doing for months: he touched. He laid careful hands on Michael’s shoulders, running his fingers across the hard lines of muscle that fit snug beneath that leather jacket, the muscle that teased Ray with every movement Michael made, whether teaching Ray to adjust the grip on his pistol, or handing him the second Xbox controller. He ran his fingers down arms that he’d seen hold up twenty-five pound rifles like they were nothing, skin littered with scars that Ray took extra time to trace and memorize, desperate to remember the details he’d been begging to know. The feel of skin and heat and _Michael_ that he’d been so desperate to claim.

Michael’s frantic movements faltered, and he continued to scrub his hair clean much more slowly than before, eyes watching Ray’s hands as they trailed across his chest, admiring the dusting of freckles and textures that only haphazardly healed skin could give. The residue from the night had been washed off from the heat of the water, and Ray was left with nothing but that perfectly imperfect stretch of Michael laid out before him, entirely his for the taking.

His thumbs moved to run across hipbones, and before he could second guess himself he was sinking to his knees. Michael’s stomach muscles clenched in surprise, a small exhale escaping him, and one hand came down to cup Ray’s cheek like he were something to be cherished. Encouraged, emboldened, and incredibly turned on, Ray leaned forward to press his lips against Michael’s left hipbone, one hand still rubbing his thumb over the matching jut on the right while his other hand curled around to run across the curve of Michael’s ass. Michael’s own hand shook slightly as he moved it back to tangle in the hair at Ray’s neck, the only sign of how close he was to falling apart.

Disbelief was slowly sinking back into Ray’s reasoning as he moved slow, indulgent kisses across the expanse of Michael’s lower abdomen, lips just barely dusting the trail of hair that followed that deep V down to where Michael was hard and aching for him. Water was streaming down Michael’s body, wetting Ray’s lips, and for a crazed moment he _hated_ it for tainting whatever taste of Michael he was able to get, and he dug his fingers harder into Michael’s ass to pull him closer, reveling in the hiss Michael released above him.

Michael’s fingers tightened in his hair the lower he moved, and when Ray finally, _finally_ took the tip of him into his mouth, solid and thick, Michael bucked involuntarily against him, a subdued litany of curses falling from his mouth as he gasped. Ray moaned slightly from the heavy heat of Michael against his tongue, and the novelty was intoxicating. For a moment, he felt a twinge of worry that his inexperience would ruin this otherwise perfect moment, but Michael was shaking beneath him the more Ray took into his mouth, and his fingers clenched _hard_ in Ray’s hair the moment he swiped his tongue over the underside.

“ _Fuck,_ Ray,” Michael cursed softly, and Ray chanced a look up, Michael’s body shielding his eyes from the water, and he moaned softly around Michael’s dick at the sight that greeted him. Michael’s bottom lip was being bitten swollen against his teeth as he watched himself disappear into Ray’s mouth, fingers tight in Ray’s soaked hair. His eyes were half-lidded and dazed as he thrust gently into the heat, and he looked so fucking _grateful_ that Ray had to steel himself to keep from coming untouched across the shower floor.

He could taste the salty precum that Michael leaked for him the more he moved, and he never thought he’d love it so much, never thought that he’d be two seconds away from begging one of Los Santos most wanted criminals to fuck his mouth until he could taste Michael’s essence spill inside of him like it was the only thing he needed out of this night.

Whatever look must have crossed his face at the thought was too much for Michael to handle, and he shuddered violently before pulling out quickly, his hand going to grip the base of his dick to prolong his orgasm.

“Come here,” Micheal offered huskily, the only explanation he seemed coherent enough to give, and Ray followed the command obediently, standing up to meet him in a desperate, sloppy kiss. He knew Michael must be able to taste himself, and with the way he tugged Ray into him, urgently trying to deepen the kiss, he liked the knowledge just as much as Ray did, and it shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.

Michael’s free hand went down to run across Ray’s chest, fingers sliding across the water and trailing down to gently pull at Ray’s dick, callouses creating a rough tug that had Ray gasping at the unfamiliarity, surprised at how _right_ it felt. But Michael didn’t linger, moving to suck lightly at the bend in Ray’s neck while his other hand curved against Ray’s throat, an impassive display of dominance that Ray was actively yielding into.  

“You know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Michael whispered into his skin, and Ray couldn’t help the full body shudder that passed through him as Michael reached back to cradle his balls, massaging just the right way to leave Ray breathless and needy.

“I have an idea,” he managed to grit out, and he could feel Michael grin against his skin like the torturous bastard that he was.

“You made it so hard,” Michael continued, moving his hand down to tweak one of Ray’s nipples as he continued his ministrations. “You were so fucking obvious, Ray. And I thought about it so much.” As he spoke, he moved his hand back to run a finger over Ray’s hole, relishing in the way Ray shuddered in surprise. “And you’d have let me, wouldn’t you?”

He could feel Michael pressing against him, the pad of his finger breaching him, and the small sting of pain was nothing comparing to the wave of overwhelming _need_ that washed over him at the intrusion. The thought of being topped had unnerved him, put him slightly on edge, but feeling Michael so close to being inside him, whispering words that hinted of everything Ray _knew_ had been forming between them, his apprehension ceased to matter.

He _wanted_ Michael to fuck him. He needed it in a desperate way he’d never shown to another human being, a way he had never _felt_ with anyone before.

He looked up to meet Michael’s eyes as best he could while trying to refrain from sinking down against the finger that was so brutally teasing him. “I’d have let you do anything.”

Michael growled lowly, pressing Ray more fully up against the wall, and Ray hissed in the sweet combination of pleasure and pain as Michael’s finger fucked deeper into him. “And I’ll still let you do anything, as long as we can _move it the fuck along.”_

Michael laughed breathlessly, and it was a small relief to know it was still _them_ , despite the dramatic jump in their relationship. “Fine, you needy little shit.” He turned off the water behind them and jerked his head towards the door. “Go get on the bed.”

As remorse as he was to slide away from Michael and forgo the teasing he was truly enjoying, the need that swirled around in him was too debilitating to ignore. He followed directions diligently, swiping a towel from the counter in a poor attempt to dry the damper parts of his hair.

Night was fully upon them now, and Ray could see the very faint light of stars that managed to outshine the city. He climbed up on the bed as he glanced out the window at the world below him, so far from his concern that he could no longer relate to the Ray that had been stuck in the gutters of Los Santos’ bullshit cycle of fuckery. His spirit remained, the dark sarcasm and one-liners still slipping from his lips, though now it happened while he toted a notorious criminal around in a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar car instead of ringing up bottles of Jameson. He was still small, though the muscles across his stomach had tightened, and his arms now displayed the wiry strength they encased from holding rifles at eye level and learning to block Michael’s hits.

He wasn’t a new man, not at his core. This city hadn’t changed him the way it changed so many others. But he was getting closer to the man he was _meant_ to be.

“You’re thinking too much,” Michael chastised as he crawled in behind him, resting his weight against Ray’s back and running those abused fingers down his sides. “I’m gonna need you to knock that shit off.”

Ray smirked, allowing Michael to take him in his hand again and rub teasingly. “What, you want me to dead-fish it?”

Michael laughed lightly against the skin of Ray’s neck. “Not possible. You can try, though.”

Michael’s fingers moved to press into him again without preamble, and Ray shuddered at how unmistakably impatient Michael was. “Hard pass,” he muttered, adjusting himself to press down onto the intrusion, the sharp sting of pain completely worth the groan of appreciation it ripped from the man behind him.

“I gotta be inside you,” Michael mumbled compellingly, biting down lightly on Ray’s neck. Ray only nodded vigorously, too caught up in how… _okay_ Michael’s fingers seemed to feel, once the pain mellowed. But too quickly, they were gone, and Michael moved to fish something out of one of the bedside tables, turning back to pop the top on a small container of lube.

Ray didn’t feel hesitant in the slightest, but a dubious expression must have crossed his face at the thought of what was coming, because suddenly Michael was leaning over and kissing him carefully, allowing the heat between to teeter slightly as he met Ray’s eyes with a serious gaze.

“I gotta ask,” he started, and Ray immediately shook his head, hearing the questions in Michael’s voice.

“I… this is a first, for me.”

He expected reassurance, because for all of Michael’s quick tempers and disregard for human compassion, he was surprisingly motivational when it was needed. He expected Michael to recount how practiced he was, how good he was going to make this, and easily coax Ray into a sense of calm acceptance like he’d done so many times before.

What he didn’t expect was Michael’s breathless laugh as urged Ray down until his back hit that expensive Egyptian cotton. “Same. Guess we’re learning this one together.”

“Same basic concepts apply, as far I know,” Ray joked, keeping his voice light despite how his eyes followed Michael’s hands as they lubed up three of his fingers.

“God, I can’t wait until I figure out how to shut you the fuck up,” Michael mumbled, the ghost of a smile across his face as he inserted two slick fingers right back into Ray without hesitation.

Ray’s head flopped back against the pillow, and he bit his lip in surprised relief. It felt so _different_ without the pull of dry skin, and Michael’s fingers worked him slowly, teasing him to test the waters of how quickly Ray was going to adjust to the deep intrusion. Despite the new sensation, Ray didn’t tense, and he kept his body languid and inviting. He didn’t feel uncomfortable or apprehensive, and if the way Michael was watching his fingers disappear into Ray’s heat with poorly concealed desire, he greatly appreciated Ray’s compliance.

“Fuck,” Michael breathed lightly, and Ray felt a distinctive, sharp stretch as another finger was added. A swift brush of pleasure washed over him as Michael’s fingers moved in _just_ the right way, and he let an embarrassing whine escape him as he closed his eyes, rutting down against Michael’s fingers in a desperate attempt to feel it again.

“That good?” he heard Michael smirk above him, and he groaned in frustration.

“You don’t even _need_ me to suck your dick. You do it just fine on your--”

But his words were cut off with a cry as Michael curled his fingers just slightly, sending that same ripple of pleasure across his spine.

“ _Fuck!”_ he cursed, tearing open his eyes to meet Michael’s, who was staring him down with a smirk that was slowly melting into sheer wonderment the longer Ray ground down against him. He felt Michael’s free hand wind fingers around Ray’s aching cock, and the combined pleasure was instantly too much. He frantically slapped Michael’s hand away, tensing his body to keep from coming.

“Don’t,” he pleaded weakly, “Not yet. I want--”

But he broke off just short of admitting _I want you inside me when I come._ It felt too intimate, too emotional and romantic for a man like the one above him, but when Michael watched the words cut off on his lips, and his eyes blazed in understanding and arousal, Ray almost wished he’d said it, just to watch those eyes grow black with lust.  

 _Next time,_ he thought blearily. _God, please let there be a next time._

Michael pulled back quickly, hands almost scrambling for the lube as he lost that distinctive air of control he was notorious for. Ray nearly whimpered at the loss of contact, the resulting empty feeling inside him, but as he watched Michael stroking himself easily, eyes roaming Ray’s body like he had paid for it, Ray forgot himself.

He reached up and pulled Michael against him, hoping the older man wasn’t against the physical intimacy, but Michael fell easily, pressing them together as he met Ray for a passionate kiss they were quickly learning to perfect. They moved against each other, Ray’s hand finding purchase on whatever skin Michael gifted him while the latter maneuvered himself until Ray felt the tell-tale pressure of Michael hard against him, slowly pushing against Ray’s heat.

Ray broke the kiss and clenched his hands against Michael’s shoulders, burying his face against the crook of his neck where sweat was slowly starting to sheen.

“Hey,” Michael breathed against him, breaching just a little bit more with each word that passed. “Relax for me, okay. Gonna feel so good, Ray. I promise. Let me in, baby.”

The last request broke him, and he groaned lightly into Michael’s chest as he unclenched, willing his body to accept something he knew he desperately wanted. The petname bounced around in the back of his skull, lighting up hopes he hadn’t even dared to give names to, and it was that more than anything that relaxed him back into the sheets.

He felt Michael push in, the head of his cock stretching him open, and Ray felt less like he was going to split in half, and more like he was being filled and _claimed_. He couldn’t focus on anything except Michael above him, who looked like he was already in far too deep to handle.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” he cursed softly, looking down to watch himself slide slowly into Ray until he was fully sheathed, quivering in an effort to hold himself up through the overwhelming pressure of Ray’s walls around him. He placed a hand on Ray’s cheek and buried his face into the shoulder blade beneath him, and Ray was surprised to feel Michael shaking, the soft keen and sigh of absolute fulfillment nearly breaking him.

Ray adjusted himself, trying to get used to the foreign sensation as he edged Michael in and out, and Michael cursed against his skin, stilling him.

“Ray, you need to wait one goddamn second unless you want this to be over before it begins.”

Ray smiled despite himself, feeling more powerful than he would’ve imagined he could with another man’s cock buried inside him. But he wasn’t cruel enough to tease Michael when he was on the very brink of ending their night early, so he resigned himself to running his hands down Michael’s back soothingly for the ten, fifteen seconds it took before Michael propped himself back up.

He met Ray’s eyes, and Ray nodded minutely, more than ready, more than willing. He still only felt _full_ rather that sated, but when Michael started to move gently against him, his cock sliding a mere inch out of him before pressing back in, Ray’s breath hitched. A spark of pleasure, almost otherworldly.

“You good?” Michael breathed, still staring at him like he’d never truly seen him before until this moment, and Ray only nodded.

“Yeah. Keep going. Feels--”

What exactly it felt like, Ray never got to convey, because Michael took his reassurance and ran with it, pulling out a little further, a little faster, starting a pace between them that blossomed a new, heightened edge to Ray’s arousal.

“Holy _fuck,”_ he gasped, breaking eye contact with Michael to took down to where they were connected, Michael disappearing inside of him just like Ray had imagined so many times before. It almost rattled him, shook him to his core, and he had to shut his eyes and throw his head back on the pillow before the sight utterly broke him.

Michael’s pace increased, but Ray could feel the hesitance in it, the desire to hold back and keep the moment suspended in time for as long as possible. The sensation was entirely different than Ray was expecting, but he _loved_ it, he was shamelessly desperate for it, and when he moved one leg to hitch to his side, offering Michael the chance to get up on his knees and hold Ray’s leg for leverage, to get _deeper_ , Michael groaned earnestly and relented.

“God _damnit_ ,” Michael breathed blissfully as he adjusted, one hand gripped roughly against Ray’s hip while the other curled around his leg to keep Ray open for him. “You’re so fucking tight. I can’t--”

“Michael, _please_ ,” Ray begged, his whole body quivering with need as Michael jerked and slammed back into him, brushing against whatever was inside of him that sent electric pleasure across his nerves. He didn’t even know what he was begging for; for more, for release, for whatever Michael would give him as he buried his cock in Ray, his face screwed up in the valiant effort to prolong their session.

“It’s so good,” he babbled, and he didn’t have the coherency to be ashamed at how wanton he sounded. “So good, Michael, you’re so--”

But Michael was thriving on it, letting Ray tap into the showmanship and pride that Michael lived to boast about, lived to _prove_. He made a choked off sound and his pace became erratic, fucking into Ray until Ray’s entire body was being jolted back by the force. He kept one hand clasped hard onto the arm that gripped his hip, while the other dug into the flesh of Michael’s ass, urging him deeper.

Ray knew Michael was close, and it was only seconds before the redhead finally met his eyes again, taking Ray’s neglected cock in his hand so quickly that Ray cried out from how badly he ached to come.

“ _Fuck_ , Michael, come with me--”

Michael nodded feverently, eyes refusing to leave Ray’s as he stroked him. “Let me come inside you, baby.”

Ray only groaned deeply, and it was the all the answer Michael needed before his hips jerked wildly and he shoved himself as deep into Ray as he could get, the heavy curse on his lips drowned out by a short, choked-off moan. Ray came not a split second later, oversensitized with the feeling of Michael’s cock inside him and those callous fingers wrapped around him, knowing how deep Michael was spilling. White flashes covered his view as he came _hard_ across Michael’s hand and his own stomach, and Michael milked him through it, tugging on him gently to carry him through the longest, most intense orgasm of his life.

When Ray came to his senses again, Michael was pushing himself back up from where he’d partially collapsed across Ray’s chest. They were both breathing heavily, sweat sticking strands of hair to their foreheads, but Michael was smiling contentedly as he caught Ray’s eyes.

“Ready?”

Ray nodded, too blissed out to give any shits about what was happening anymore. He felt a discomfort as Michael pulled out, and screwed his face up at the resulting pulse of hurt now that the pleasure was gone. Michael reached for the towel that Ray had discarded earlier and tried to wipe some of the come from Ray’s stomach, but gave up halfway and flopped down on the bed, utterly spent from both the brawl earlier and their unexpected fuck session.

“You gonna live?” Ray croaked out, and his voice sounded so hoarse that he flushed, realizing how vocal he must have been.

Michael snorted into the pillow, butt-ass naked to the window of the world without a care. “I’m probably gonna live longer now, honestly. My doctor will be so pleased.”

“You mean Jack? Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be _thrilled_ when he finds out.”

Ray was talking shit out loud, but internally, he was still processing how fucking lucky he had just gotten. Michael was spread out before him like an unwrapped present, and Ray was hoping against everything that this wasn’t an one-off event.

“Well I’m not gonna just _announce_ it--”

“You won’t need to, with how I’m going to be limping tomorrow.”

 _That_ got Michael’s attention, and he turned away from the pillow to grin at Ray, that cocky, all-knowing expression cemented into place like he’d been born with it. “Come on, Ray. Don’t lie to me and tell me you don’t like the idea of everyone knowing just how hard I fucked you.”

Ray swallowed, and his traitorous fucking dick twitched in interest, which only widened Michael’s grin. “God, Ray. You might as well just hang a neon fucking sign.”

“Says the guy who nearly creamed his pants in the elevator,” Ray sassed back, calm as ever. Not even Michael’s teasing could take away the serenity that was filling all the little cracks in his ever-evolving persona.

“Hey, it’s been a minute, alright?” Michael defended, kicking the blankets down so that he could slip underneath them. “Not like I could go out and score while I had to babysit you.”

“No, you just had to jack off in your bed like the rest of the common folk, thinking about the hot piece of ass sleeping on your couch,” Ray teased, but was surprised to feel Michael tense beside him. Ray grinned, disbelief swimming through his satiated veins as he turned to stare at Michael with wide eyes. “No _way,_ Jones _._ No fucking way,” he laughed, and Michael bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

“We are so not talking about this right now--”

“We are _so_ talking about this ri--”

Michael kicked him furiously through the blanket, and Ray cursed through his laughter. “Okay -- fuck, _ow, Michael_ \-- fine!” He giggled lightly as Michael stopped his assault, and moved to join him under the blankets. “But tomorrow--”

“ _Tomorrow,”_ Michael interrupted, stretching out beautifully across the bed and showing no signs of kicking Ray out. “I will be otherwise occupied.”

“Oh?”

“Got a fight lined up,” Michael explained, his eyes drooping closed as his body relaxed. “I don’t do them much anymore, but I got called out by some underdog that’s been making waves. Gotta go protect my title.”

Ray hesitated, wondering how best to approach asking if he could tag along, but Michael filled the silence quickly. “I’ll be exposed the whole time,” he explained, leaning over to kiss Ray languidly, like they’d done it a thousand times before. “I need you there, because Tony is bound to take the opportunity. You got my back?”

Ray melted as Michael kissed him again, soft and lazy full of all the reassurances Ray needed to know. He tried not to focus too heavily on Michael’s words, the _trust_ he was so casually handing him, and what would have sent Ray stumbling through his own nerves two months ago was now filling him with the same confidence that Michael so easily displayed.

There was really only one answer Ray could ever have given him. It was the knowledge that he’d given himself when he’d inexplicably saved Michael’s life in that dingy bathroom, and when Michael’s head had been in Martin’s crosshairs and Ray had suddenly found his confidence. When every sense had shut down except the animalistic need to _protect_ him.

_You got my back?_

“Course I do.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope i made up for my shitty absence with 15,000 words and smut. but probably not.  
> also, i really need a beta. both for beta-ing and whatnot, and also to keep me motivated by fangirling/boying with me. if anyone is down for that, please let me know!  
> <3 you guys


	17. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure I've only got one more chapter here guys, with the strong possibility for an epilogue. It's taken me foreeeeever and I'm so, so sorry.

Ray woke to a soft, familiar buzzing and the less than welcoming sensation of Michael’s hand whacking him lazily on his chest.

“Get my phone,” Michael mumbled blearily into the pillow beneath him, and Ray righted himself from his tangle of bedsheets, squinting through the late morning sunshine to get a bearing on his surroundings. Michael’s body sprawled face-first next to him was the first thing he saw, the skin across his naked back looking as pristine as it ever would in the forgiving light. Ray swallowed heavily at the stark reminder of their night and his gut clenched in arousal. He tried not to linger on the expanse of freckles that faded out into pure skin the lower he traced, but his mind quickly flashed with the image of Michael above him, fingers digging into his skin, watching Ray react like he'd never seen another human that clearly before.

He shook the thoughts away and raised his head from his pillow to look for the source of the offending vibration. Once he realized the buzzing was coming from the pants that Michael had left discarded in the doorway to the shower, he flopped his head back down with a groan and shooed Michael’s batting hand away.

“Go fuck yourself,” he answered raggedly, settling back into the comfort of featherdown. “Shouldn’t have left it on the floor.”

“Seriously?” Michael lamented into his pillow with an annoyed whine. “Is it always going to be this way with you? You're as bad as Gavin, and he's already on my shit-list, since I’m ninety percent sure he’s the one that’s blowing up my fucking phone at nine in the morning.”

“No,” Ray corrected, trying to warm his body back up from the brief chill he exposed it to. “I’m as bad as _you_ , you just don’t like the reminder. Also, here’s another reminder you won’t like: you _told_ him to call you.”

“God _damnit_ Ray, shut the fuck up.”

The comforter was ripped back as Michael angrily got to his feet, eyes glaring tired daggers towards the jumbled mess of clothes by the doorway as he stumbled towards it. Ray stared unabashedly as Michael retrieved his pants, completely nude, and fished his phone out of them with a smattering of curses. Ray, completely unfazed by Michael’s mood, couldn’t deny the heat pooling in his stomach at the sight of something that, only hours ago, had been undoubtedly _his,_ but the uncertainty surrounding their tentative relationship kept him from making any promising remarks as Michael scrolled through his notifications.

“He’s on his way,” Michael announced, shooting off a quick reply to Gavin that Ray assumed contained a multitude of expletives, before moving towards the closet.

“Don’t do that,” Ray chastised instantly, because if _Michael_ was going to get up and start the day, it meant Ray wouldn’t have any excuse to dawdle, and he was _not_ about that life. “Come on, it’s going to take him half an hour to get across town, and you know he’s going to let himself in anyway.”

He could hear Michael scoff from the closet, but Ray was now fluently versed in Michael’s lexicon of tells, and that particular scoff, the one that seemed so inclined to spur a disagreement, always led to a barter, casually dressed in a sarcastic one-liner.

Ray wasn’t wrong.

“Why? You gonna make it worth my while?”

Ray grinned, closing his eyes against his pillow in a stark relief that was so pronounced it almost took him by surprise. Last night had been the first moment that he felt on even ground with Michael, like they were truly in the same place on the same fucked-up timeline, and he sure as fuck wasn’t ready to let it go. He wasn't sure he'd  _ever_ be ready to let it go, but that was a thought he'd work through another day.

“Haven’t let you down so far,” Ray responded easily, and Michael’s head popped back out of the closet.

“That’s a bold statement, you sure it’ll pay off?”

Ray groaned irritably. “Just… get out of the fucking closet so I can suck you off. Christ.”

Michael did as he was told, but raised his eyebrow in question. “Interesting play on words. I bet you feel real good about that one.”

Ray grinned as Michael climbed back on top of him, nothing but hot flesh that was goosebumping from the cold Michael had subjected it to, and Ray was almost certain he was addicted to the feel of it underneath his fingers.

“Completely unintentional,” Ray countered, wasting no time in reaching out to touch whatever part of Michael he could reach. “But, this only goes to prove how naturally charming I am -- top quality humor, even unconsciously.”

“Look, Ray, don’t take this the wrong way, but--” Michael moved to slip under the blankets with him, situating himself until he was lying partially across Ray, the absence of clothes between them and the intimacy of the gesture lighting up Ray’s nerves with that beautiful, consuming fire. “--I really love that I’ve found a way to shut you up.”

Ray moved to paw at Michael’s shoulder in response, urging him down to meet for a heavy kiss, languid and lazy and far too comfortable. When Ray nudged him again to flip them over, leaving Michael spread against the sheets like they’d done this a thousand times before, his heart flipped in his chest.

This wasn’t them, running high on adrenaline after a fight. This wasn’t them combating the influx of testosterone in a way they loved. This was them, sharing a bed in the penthouse Michael had openly invited Ray’s presence into, the same penthouse they had been unknowingly practicing the acute talents of domestic cooperation. This was them, wanting the other not out of convenience, but out of reassurance, out of _affection_. They had been friends far before they had turned lovers, and Ray knew there wasn’t a single fucking person alive that would ever get to see Michael this way, pinned and tamed, his fingers gentle rather than curled into fists.

Michael, in all of his grandeur and larger-than-life presence, would never be wholly Ray’s. There was too much of him to be fully wrapped up in another life, too many nuances and scars and tribulations for Ray to pretend that Michael could ever be _fully_ his. But this Michael, the one that smiled softly and subjected himself to Ray’s touch, the one that slept peacefully beside him without the fear of a knife in his back, the one that trusted Ray with the secrets and horrors of a life lived in tragedy… well.

 _That_ one was his.

His weariness was still prominent, and his body was still twinging painfully at the reminder of Ray's aggressive night, both from the pathetic fight in the warehouse and from Michael’s rough pace. But he pushed through it at the simple joy of being _wanted_ , and trailed small, quick kisses down Michael’s chest, slow and delicate, but also impatient, urgent. Michael was already half hard just from the tease that always smoldered between them, and when Ray slipped his lips across the tip, Michael jolted and hissed in appreciation, running his fingers through the overgrown mess of hair on Ray’s head.

He tongued Michael lightly and started to jerk him off lazily, but expertly, mirroring all the little tricks he used on himself, and Michael went from half-hard to thick and rigid within seconds.

“Mouthy little shit,” Michael complained, bucking up lightly into Ray’s mouth. “Should’ve figured you’d be good at this.”

Ray couldn’t help the smile that twisted his lips as he took Michael further down his throat, moving his fingers back to circle Michael’s cock at the very base. Michael shuddered breathlessly, content to let Ray work the orgasm out of him, but his fingers stopped their trail across Ray’s scalp as his phone chirped in warning from where Michael had abandoned it on the floor.

Michael groaned irritably and Ray pulled off to peer at him questioningly.

“The fuck is that?”

“Triggered alarm,” Michael grumbled in response. “Someone’s using my elevator, which means fucking Gavin was already practically here when he texted me.”

Ray’s heart sank at the notion of unexpected company, but he couldn’t help the bubble of fondness that formed inside him as Michael moved to stop him from getting up.

“Wait wait wait, just… real fast.” He sounded desperate and uncharacteristically needy, holding onto Ray’s elbow to keep him in place. “Not enough time to get off but, just, you know. Little longer.”

Ray grinned at him before moving back down to swallow Michael whole, running his tongue along the underside and gently jerking the few inches he wasn’t able to get down his throat. Michael exhaled sharply, wordless reassurances on the tips of his fingers and he urged Ray to bob on top of him, no more than six seconds of beautiful heat and satisfaction.

Michael released his grip as soon as they heard the door open, and Ray clambered off of him to retrieve a set of boxers and jeans from his small section in Michael’s closet. He tossed Michael a pair of pants  -- which Michael fully ignored, content to stretch out beneath the covers, shamelessly displaying the tent he created between his legs.

“Seriously?” Ray hissed at him, amused. He swiped blindly for his shirt, because no matter how hard he could try to bitch, Michael’s miles of freckled skin were a difficult thing to peel his eyes away from.

Michael only shrugged, a serene smile on his face as he ignored Ray’s chastising and starting going through his phone notifications. Ray tried to hide his smile as he buttoned his jeans.

“Oh you are such a piece of--”

“Hey, lads!”

Gavin coasted down the stairs easily, maintaining his balance by nothing but the grace of god. He was slipping his phone down into his pocket, distracted, and Ray was gifted with the perfect view of the exact moment Gavin’s eyes passed from Ray, hurriedly shucking on a shirt, to Michael, still in bed, still incredibly (and noticeably) aroused.

“ _Jesus--_ ” he wailed immediately, turning his head away and hiding his view with his hand. “What was the bloody point of telling you I was on my way, then? For Christ's _sake,_ Michael!”

Michael laughed loudly, unabashed. “C’mon, Gavy. Come lay with me.”

Gavin whined out Michael’s name, clearly uncomfortable, and Ray couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face as Gavin refused to look in either of their directions, hating the entire situation.

“You could have just _told_ me you needed more time, Michael, you douche-pot!”

“Why are you just mad at me? This is at least eighty percent Ray’s fault, put some blame on him.”

“Because Ray has _decency,_ Michael--” Gavin argued, while Ray shot Michael a curious look, asking, “Wait, what’s the other twenty?”

“Oh, I was thinking about getting mimosas and breakfast down by that place at the bay--”

Gavin momentarily forgot his discomfort and shot the still-lazing Michael an incredulous look. “You get hard for _mimosas_?”

Michael scoffed at him, looking unimpressed. “What, do you _not_?”

Ray snorted a laugh and motioned for Gavin to follow him. “Wow, god, Michael. Shout-out to all those dick-shaped holes in the orange juice boxes. That suddenly makes a _lot_ of goddamn sense. I'm out.”

Gavin moved to follow him to the staircase, looking incredibly relieved through his own hiccup of laughter, but Michael immediately started feigning a whine around a crooked smile.

“Ray, no, c’mon. Stay. Just like, ten minutes.”

“Ray, do _not_ stay.”

Ray ignored Michael’s stupid, idiotic pleadings with a stifled laugh and started the trek up the staircase with Gavin at his side, trying to ignore the sting of pain that blossomed out from his insides to his hips. Something in his expression or gait must have given him away, because Gavin was already smirking at him as they reached the landing, the tease evident in his voice.

“Well. That one was an easy call, wasn’t it?”

Yesterday, Ray would’ve been embarrassed, but the world could quite literally be burning down outside the vaulted windows right now, and Ray didn’t think it would even be able to wipe the smile his face. He was _radiating_ contentment, and not even Gavin’s elementary ribbing was going to ruin that for him. Instead, he shrugged.

“Hey, I may have been the bitch, but I’m not the one begging for more right now, am I?”

To his surprise, Gavin doubled over in laughter, which only became more hysterical as Michael shouted up, “I can still _hear_ you dickheads! You went like, ten feet!” from the bottom of the staircase.

“Michael, get up!” Gavin urged through his laughter, once he was able to get his breathing under control. “Let’s go get those mimosas, you doughnut.”

They could hear a muffled, “Holy shit, _yes,_ ” accompanied the frenzied sound of covers being pulled back, and Ray smiled to himself, completely fulfilled and utterly, undoubtably  _happy_ just to be alive in this very moment. He was praying he wouldn't ever forget this memory, this significant pinpoint in time where he truly felt like he’d found what he’d come looking for, even if it left him in the unlikeliest of places. 

“Hey,” he said softly, his own quiet tone nearly drowned out by Michael stumbling around the floor beneath them. Gavin looked at him, curiously patient, mirth still shining in his eyes, and Ray continued. “I just… thanks, you know? You didn’t have to do all that shit to find that fucker this week, but I appreciate it. I owe you, seriously.”

Gavin kept his gaze for a moment, pensive, no show of emotions other than the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. When he finally tore his eyes away from Ray’s, it was to look down the staircase, where they could hear Michael singing happily to himself, off-key and boisterous.

“Don’t be daft,” Gavin answered softly, and in that moment, Ray realized how much of Geoff Gavin truly encompassed, sharing that same ability to wind so many words and emotions around a simple, delicate phrase. “This was my way of thanking you.”

Ray smiled softly, but said nothing, and they both waited in companionable silence for Michael to join them.

 

///

 

_[Twelve hours later]_

Michael insisted they take separate vehicles, both to keep their association out of the eyes of the easily alarmed public, as well as lure Tony into a sense of calm at what was habitually Michael's solo outing.

_“He’ll be a lot less careful if he doesn’t know you’re there. Just keep low and avoid detection.”_

Ray had done as he was told, hesitantly taking out his own, still pristine Vacca through the nightlife and stowing it in a parking structure across the street from the fight club. Michael had given him a small stack of laminated Fake AH Crew logos beforehand, a mockery of a business card, and told him to place some in his windshield to deter any car theft. Ray had questions, but placed them on backburner until after the night was over.

As he exited the parking structure, walking casually to maintain a low profile, he could see the throng of people already hovering outside the double doors of what had once been a small concert venue. The old lettering had been torn down, and the front was now plastered with a neon sign that blared _Dempsey’s_ into the darkened street. A woman was roving through the crowd, shouting out names and titles and the price increase on betting odds, scribbling names as cash was thrust towards her amidst yells and catcalls.

He avoided them, crossing instead towards the fire escape around the back of the building, carefully climbing the rusted ladders to avoid knocking his rifle against the steel. Once on the roof, he busted the lock of a small door that took him right down to the scaffolding that ran the edges of the ceiling, a high-rise walkway where cameramen used to work their magic for bands that would brave the lawlessness of downtown Los Santos. None of those former lights remained as he hopped down gracefully onto the rafter’s catwalk though; everything had been looted and sold, and the only glow in the building came from the large, blinding construction lights that had been haphazardly set up in every corner, extension cords snaking their way across the dusty concrete.

Michael would be here already, reuniting with old acquaintances and sizing up his competition, and Ray’s gut once again bottomed at heady reminder of the _trust_ Michael was gracing him with. Tony, the newest of hitmen hired by Michael’s 'victimized' brother, was sure to take the opportunity of having his target out in the open, distracted, and surrounded by drunk, fight-mongering citizens.

And it was now Ray’s responsibility to remove that threat.

His stomach churned as he snuck slowly along the scaffolding, double and triple-checking to assure himself that he was cloaked in darkness, until he reached the far corner, where walls pinned in two sides of him, and the only way to his position was down that long, perilous stretch of wood. He was a short distance from the commotion, fitted atop what had once been the small overhang of VIP seating, close enough to get an aerial view, but far enough to avoid casual detection. He hunkered down and began to set up his rifle, twisting on the silencer and eyeing the slowly growing crowd.

The people were wild, their voices pitching and rising as they called to one another or laughed uproariously. Shirts seemed to be optional, and strong, muscular men were draining beers and chucking them against walls that were littered with enough graffiti that it created an unintentionally fitting urban-influenced wallpaper. Ray watched as one of them, far more intoxicated than the others, reached out to grope a bikini-clad woman’s breast, and she reeled back and knocked him hard enough with her fist that he fell backwards onto his ass from surprise. Her friend then smashed a beer across his head, and the crowd cheered in tandem as he clutched at his bleeding brow, howling in pain.

“Christ,” Ray muttered under his breath, trying to imagine fourteen year old Michael in this crowd, struggling to find an opponent, just as eager to make cash as he was to learn lessons. Still shouldering through the heartache of losing his family, still burdened with guilt and betrayal and horrible  _lonlieness_ _._

Ray was instantly sobered on how incredibly out of his league he was with _all_ of this. He could go a decade and still not have earned the right to boast about what Michael had given him. What he didn’t have to suffer and bleed and _destroy_ to obtain.

He pushed the thought aside and focused, clearing his head enough to locate the exits, check for vantage points, and size up the audience. He’d been observing for no more than ten minutes when a woman stood up on a small podium set in the back of the room, a crude announcer’s box, and cleared her throat. She was dressed in clothing too tight to be comfortable, and her grin was delicious in a way that only a drug could supply.

“Whoaaa,” she cooed mysteriously into the mic, scanning the crowd with a wild gaze that only enticed the madness that engulfed the mass of bodies. “Big crowd here tonight huh? I wonder why, I wonder why…” She feigned thought, ticking her finger against her chin before leaning closer, conspiratorially. “Have you all been listening to that gossip chain?”

A few cheers flew up from the crowd that now easily surpassed one hundred and fifty people, all of them pressed in together while still keeping a generous ring open in the middle for the fighters. The announcer seemed pleased with their response, closing her eyes and nodding appreciatively.

“Yeah, yeah I bet. Well I’m very happy to say the rumors are _true,_ my friends! We have Mogar in the house tonight--”

She was cut off as an irrepressible roar went over the crowd, and Ray sucked in his breath, alarmed, and completely overwhelmed. There had been mentions of Michael’s infamy, pop shots of teasing tossed at the redhead when the crew was together, but Ray hadn’t dug too deeply into it except to wistfully wish he could have seen it himself. He hadn’t realized to what extent _notorious_ had truly meant in this case.

The woman hushed them, urging them to lower their voices with the press of her palms against the air in front of her. “Alright, yes, I know. _But,_ we’ve a few fights to get through before that! Two matches to determine who goes on the finals, then, we’ll have Mogar and Sal up here for the title--”

The cheers erupted again, and the announcer’s words were cut off as she gave up making her introduction and instead flipped through an itinerary. “Alright, first match! Let’s get Hawk and Jason in the ring here -- come on, boys, hussle. There you go. Let them through, now, come on!”

Ray watched as two lower-tier fighters shouldered their way through the crowd and into the open arena in the middle, completely indistinguishable from the audience around them. Ray tore his eyes from the scene to take in his surroundings, looking for signs of movement that didn’t align with fisting beers and half-drunken cheering.

A flash far ahead and from his left caught his eye, and he looked in time to see the distant figure of Michael wink at him from behind the rich, red curtained stage. Ray’s heart jumped to his throat, but before he could react, Michael was gone, disappearing to whatever green room they had set up for him so he could avoid the crowd that was half drunk just on his presence.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he extracted it with mild effort, trying to keep his rifle completely still so no one would catch the glint from the paint. Michael was texting him, and he kept the phone down low enough that no one would see the faint light of the screen.

_You did good. Almost couldn’t find you._

Ray tried not to grin as he texted back, _Wish I could say the same for you. Half the people here jizzed themselves at ‘Mogar.’_ He bit his lip, his fingers hovering over the buttons, and before he could second guess himself, had typed out _Don’t think you’ll have a problem getting laid tonight_ and sent it.

He cursed himself right after the message disappeared, both at his childish insecurity, and how inappropriate it was for the current setting. He was here to make sure Michael’s head remained in one piece, and he was putting that aside to placate his own insignificant worries.

His phone buzzed sharply in his hand, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief at the words _I could get used to jealous you. Kinda hot._

He smiled, despite himself, and realized how much of a fool he was for not realizing that Michael must know him just as well as Ray prided himself on understanding _Michael_. Before he could reply, his phone lit up again, and he looked down.

_Don’t worry, I’ll settle for a congratulatory blow job tonight after I knock this fucker back down to his level. Your ass is probably still sore, virgin.”_

Ray flushed, overwhelmed with how many things Michael was able to make him feel in just a short string of words. The confidence that poured from the message went straight to Ray’s dick, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to claim it as his own, feed off of the surplus of creedence that Michael so brazenly supplied. Ray’s fears had seemed so insurmountable, and Michael had calmed them instantly by only insisting they shouldn’t exist, while still keeping Ray’s pride tangible and not calling him out on his insecurities.

And, Ray was loathe to admit, his ass _was_ still sore. He shifted slightly to subdue the ache and typed back.

_I’m letting you get shot._

_That's a waste of good dick, and you know it._

Ray smiled, completely ignoring the two opponents below him that were bashing each other’s faces in. _Take him out fast so we can get the fuck home._

Michael only sent a winking emoticon back, and Ray turned his phone on silent and shoved it back down into his pocket where it wouldn’t bother him. He needed to focus, and he reluctantly willed the fluttering in his stomach to die down, attempting to push the distracting knowledge that the figure all these fuckers were cheering for was _his,_ and Michael trusted Ray to watch over him.

He glanced back down at the two fighters in the short distance below him. One was sporting a heavily gushing broken nose, but had his opponent in a rough headlock, trying to pin him down. Dirt kicked up around their feet, and the crowd reacted appropriately to each well-timed hit or miss.

Ray cataloged all of their faces individually, trying to find a match for the vague description Michael had been able to give him. Dark hair, graying goatee, and broad shoulders. A few fit the profile, but either Tony was a master at blending in, or he preferred to do his hits drunk, because none of the matches even seemed capable of holding themselves steady, much less perform a well-executed hit on a high profile target.

Ray bit his lip as the first match ended, and the loser was hauled up and carted off to regain himself in a back room somewhere. He was getting nervous. Michael was steadfast in his belief that Tony would be there tonight, and the longer time went on without the hitman making an appearance, the more Ray believed himself to be at fault.

He shook the thought away as the woman announced the next two fighters, reminding himself of what Michael would say to him in his lapse of confidence. He ran his eyes across the rafters, back through the door where he’d entered from the roof, but it was all calm and undisturbed. If anyone was coming for Michael, they’d be doing it under the guise of an audience member.

The second match passed much like the first, and Ray’s apprehension continued to grow, more from the unknown than any particular worry that he wouldn’t be able to perform. He _knew_ he could take this guy out, but he was terrified he wouldn’t get him in his sights in time. Two young girls were in the ring now, fists flying as they grappled with one another, each one laser-focused on the two thousand dollar prize that was up for grabs in their tier.

One of the girls, a scrappy blonde with her hair tied up in a bun, kicked out the legs of her competition, landing a blow as the girl stumbled and tried to regain her footing. The hit shot her head back, two of her teeth flying out with a gush of blood, and she fell back with a warbled cry in her throat. Seconds ticked by as people screamed for her to get up, but she relented, waving her arm dismissively at the blonde and cradling her jaw in her hand.

“Wooo, that girl is a _wrang-lar_!” The announcer cheered appreciatively into the mic, watching as the loser’s friends helped carry her to her feet and walk her out of the ring. The blonde put her fist in the air, milking her victory as the sweat plastered her hair across her forehead.

Ray was only half-listening as the announcer continued, advancing the girl to the finals that would be held only a week out. A strange motion -- or lack thereof -- had caught his eye, drawing his attention towards the back half of the crowd, where a man looked decidedly unimpressed with the atmosphere around him. The crowd was roaring, their hands flying high into the air as they screamed or lamented about their winnings, but this guy was too casual, looking as if he held no claim on either fighter, and had no stake on the outcome of any events that were being held here.

Ray’s eyes narrowed, and he peered through his sights to get a better look, already well-adjusted to the wild swing of range. The man fit Tony’s profile perfectly, salt and pepper goatee shining against the harsh lights as his eyes scanned over the crowd, looking for something Ray was almost certain was _him._ When the man moved, looking back towards the wide double doors, Ray caught a glimpse of the pistol tucked neatly in his jeans.

For a moment, he was taken aback by how simple this was about to be. In the imagined scenario inside his head, this process was agonizingly difficult and stressful, and involved a lot of theatrical dramatics that ended with Ray’s exposure to the crowd and Michael narrowly avoiding a bullet through his skull.

But, then again, Michael had ensured him that his brother always hired brawn over brains, and the man currently in his scope was a beacon of suspicion, his eyes ignoring the crowd, the fighters, and the clamor of the room while he looked in every corner for his target and for the backup he was likely only half-assured Michael would have.

Ray breathed, and smiled.

It was instantaneous. He waited until the moment Tony had pushed an annoying, drunk patron out of his personal bubble, unknowingly lining himself up for Ray’s shot just as the announcer began to roar "Are you fuckers _ready?!”_ into the mic. Ray’s vision slighted, and in the back of his mind he knew Michael was here, behind the curtain, about to step out onto a bulls-eye with no protection other than what Ray could give him. Those instincts were back, flaring to life as Ray pressed the pad of his finger against the trigger, letting his shoulder absorb the kickback from the silenced shot as he watched Tony startle in his step.

The man stumbled sideways for just a beat, surprised etched into his darkened features, and blood began to blossom across the left half of his shirt, fingers of red that trickled out to brush against the edge of his jacket. Ray had hit him from the side, penetrating both of his lungs, and the moment Tony’s mouth opened, a cough of blood came out with it while he clawed at the wound, shocked, the understanding of what had happened not fully hitting his brain.

The guy he had pushed back held out his arm curiously, both drunk and stupid, with a concerned question on his lips. Tony reached out for him, some basic, lower instinct to try and channel the hurt to another person, before he fell to his knees, coughing a splatter of blood across the floor. A few people leapt back in concern, but most were still unaware, too hung up on the coming fight, too engrossed in the words of the announcer.

When Tony finally tipped to the side, his eyes void, the drunk finally realized what was happening and hurriedly grabbed his friend, yanking and pointing. His friend looked back at the dying body, looked again, then shrugged and pulled them both away from the scene and closer towards the ring.

“Good call,” Ray laughed lightly under his breath, his heart soaring. He could _relax_. He’d done his job, and Michael was safe for the moment, free to finally be himself without a near constant fear of being stabbed in the back the moment he set foot outside of his apartment. The people on the floor avoided Tony’s body, thinking him nothing more than a drunken or drugged out asshole. The bullet was doing an incredible job of keeping the blood from fanning out across the floor, and as such, it kept panic at a minimum.

Ray couldn’t keep the grin from his face as he slowly took apart the modifications on his rifle, making it easier to transport, listening closely as the announcer called out Sal’s name and goaded him into the makeshift ring. Ray pulled out his phone quickly, shooting off a text to Michael as the crowd yelled and hollered, a cacophony of cheers and boos.

_Try not to let Tony’s body in the back distract you, ‘Mogar.’_

Michael’s reply was almost instantaneous, and Ray could nearly feel the relief that bled through it just from the few simple words.

_Goddamn you’re good at this baby._

Ray only smiled, heart beating wildly, and texted Michael back.

_Shut up and give me a show._

No reply, but he could easily imagine Michael’s shit-eating grin in his head, reading the message before tossing his phone aside and waiting for his name to be called. Ray relaxed against the scaffolding, completely and utterly content, his eyes anxious to watch Michael’s fight without Tony’s distraction.

“Now Sal here has gone _undefeated_ for twenty-three matches, folks,” the announcer prattled off, motioning towards the brawny, sandy-haired plane of muscle that was already dancing around the ring, utilizing the cries of his supporters as some sort of gritty theme music that barely passed for _campy._

“--Hell, we’ve run out of people willing to fight him! But where there’s a champ, there’s always a predecessor,” she added, lowering her voice to add an enticing inflection, and the crowd nearly vibrated with intensity. “We haven’t seen him for well over a year, but we all know his name, and tonight, we’ve managed to drag him back out to defend his title, to turn that thirty-nine streak of undefeated matches into a big four-oh… let’s welcome back our reigning champion -- _Mogar!”_

Michael was already halfway through the crowd, which parted for him like oil through water, reconvening as he passed to shout rumors and observances at one another. The whole room was surging, wild with an underground celebrity presence, and the announcer was grinning openly at her podium, her bottom lip bit between her teeth.

Michael’s jeans were loose, grabbing just enough purchase on his hips to keep them up without constricting his movement. He was bare from the waist up, as rules dictated, and the scars that littered his skin were far more prominent in the heavy, yellowed lighting, stretching across that light expanse of freckled back that Ray hovered his eyesight on longer than he should have. There was power in Michael’s stance, muscled curves that amplified the veritable cloud of elitism that had been shaped and molded from small, insignificant beginnings.

His eyes were narrowed, that ever-present smirk across his lips as he stared down his competition, having already dictated the outcome of the fight, and the image struck a fire low in the base of Ray’s gut, stealing his breath from him.

The competition -- Sal -- hurked and spit, clearly unimpressed but not stupid enough to underestimate an opponent he didn’t understand. He rolled his shoulders, presenting, but Michael just watched, rubbing his thumb across the wrap that had been wound around his fingers and wrists. His eyes, for the barest of moments, flicked in Ray’s direction, and Ray’s world spun and skidded to a halt so violently that he swore he was fourteen again, hung up on an all-consuming crush.

“You know the rules, boys,” the announcer continued, and Ray watched as Sal spit words in Michael’s direction. Crude insults and jabs, an attempt to feel for a weakness that Michael would be dead before supplying -- a weakness Ray isn’t even sure he _had._ “No teeth, and no hits while the other is down. One round, winner takes -- or _keeps_ \-- the title of undefeated champ. Let’s go, boys!”

Someone off to her left rang mockery of a UFC bell, and both fighters reacted differently. Michael put his hands up slowly, calculating, curling them into fists as he watched Sal hype up the crowd to fuel his own confidence. He jeered at Michael, playing at a stereotype that had suited him well for the past twenty-three fights, and Ray was already grinning as he caught the mistakes in Sal’s form, the weaknesses he displayed under a spotlight for Michael, all while he tried to desperately belittle his opponent.

Michael’s face remained passive, and Ray had never seen him so centralized, so laser-focused that the world around him and Sal had ceased to exist -- the same otherworldly feeling that Ray experienced when his scope lined up to a target. A flicker of annoyance passed through him though when more words flew from Sal’s mouth, aimed towards finding a chink in Michael’s armor, and Ray cursed his distance, wishing he were close enough to hear those pathetic jabs, watch the fire blaze behind Michael’s eyes.

Sal fronted wildly, goading Michael into throwing the first hit, but the veteran remained steadfast, thriving on a patience Ray never saw him partake in outside of work. Finally, at the surging urge of the crowd, Sal moved forward wildly, trying to utilize some element of surprise, and threw his fist out towards Michael’s jaw.

Or rather, where Michael _had_ been.

Ray had barely seen him move, but Michael had dodged the hit like second nature, veering his body to the left and knocking Sal’s arm to the right with his forearm, letting Sal’s momentum careen him forward just enough for Michael to reach out from behind and grab Sal's head with both hands, throwing him backwards against the concrete.

The crowd roared in delight as Michael jumped back to avoid Sal’s furious kick as the larger frantically righted himself. Michael’s mouth twitched with a smile, and even from a distance Ray could see the laughter in his eyes.

Michael would win this fight easily. But that didn’t mean he had to win it _quickly._

 _How does that saying go?_ Ray thought, muffling his laughter into his arm. _Talk shit get hit?_

Sal’s face was tinged with red when he got back to his feet, humiliated at being tossed to the ground so easily. Michael grinned at him and shrugged his shoulders, playing at an innocent ignorance that only enticed Sal into a rage, setting him up for the domino effect of distraction that would ultimately lead to his failure.

Sal brought his arms up again, bouncing around Michael to regain his confidence. Whether he thought Michael’s first avoidance had been a fluke, or maybe just luck, Ray would never know, but it was only seconds before Sal struck out again, his hardened fist going straight towards Michael’s face.

Michael’s reaction was immediate, and he knocked Sal’s arm out of it’s trajectory, pivoting on his heel to avoid the strike. He smacked a full palm against Sal’s face, effectively stopping his momentum as Michael pushed him back and let his right arm come back to crack a heavy uppercut against the bottom of Sal’s jaw.

The crowd groaned and cheered and Sal stumbled back, dazed. Uproarious laughter shot through them at the easy way Michael had slapped Sal back, using his own force against him. Sal tumbled into the brim of the circle, disoriented from the heavy hit, but the crowd pushed him away, half sadistic, half encouraging. Sal shook himself, blood trickling from his lips from either a split cheek or loosened teeth, and put his arms back up.

Michael remained surprisingly respectful, allowing Sal to orientate himself before regaining his defensive stance. Ray chalked it up to either wanting to prove prowess, or to ensure that when Sal went down, he went down in the most humiliating way possible. Both seemed likely.

But as Michael went to prepare himself for another flurry of heavy hits, Sal’s prerogative changed, likely due to his embarrassment, and he kicked out swiftly for Michael’s groin. The redhead avoided it quickly, but the awkward pivot he had to make lowered his fists to his torso and left his face exposed. Sal took the opportunity and sunk his fist into Michael’s cheekbone, right where the fading bruise of the previous night had still lingered.

Ray winced as contact was made, and Michael’s infuriated yell and growl of rage tore over the sound of flesh meeting flesh. The crowd booed at the undeniably dick move, and a few of them threw beer cans towards Sal as he backed away from Michael. His face was hesitant, almost regretful, and there was a twinge of fear in his eyes as Michael righted himself and spat a mouthful of blood across the concrete, radiating fury.

Ray swallowed heavily. Michael’s amusement was _gone_.

Michael bared his teeth, snarling out something Ray was too distant to hear over the excitement of the crowd. His mouth was bloody, and his teeth and lips were tinged with a slick slide of red as he mouthed off, and Sal’s movement changed from confident to jittery as he drowned in whatever apprehension Michael was brutally delivering.

The next movements happened so quickly that Ray had to struggle not to blink in case he missed them. Michael lunged forward, finally playing the aggressor, and tried to land a hit, but Sal had fully switched to a defensive form, curling his body up behind his forearms and letting them take Michael’s abuse, deflecting hits as best he could.

Finally, Michael landed a heavy blow to Sal’s stomach, which sent the larger man doubling over, and Michael took his opportunity. He jammed his knee upwards into Sal’s gut, keeping him down, and slammed his elbow down hard between Sal’s shoulder blades. Sal hacked and coughed violently, heaving around the breath he struggled to take, and Michael jerked his knee up into Sal’s solar plexus twice more, just to make his point.

He waited for Sal to regain his footing, spitting out another mouthful of blood as he turned to the crowd, raising his arms as if to say _Is this what you fucking wanted?!_ The crowded screamed and surged, various chants of Michael’s alias fading in and out as people picked it up only to drop it into a delirious yell the closer Michael physically got to them.

Sal was struggling in the background, his arm curved around his gut and what was very likely a few broken ribs, but Michael paid him no heed, shouting “WHO’S YOUR FUCKING CHAMPION?!” into the audience, which made them howl with respect and admiration.

Ray tensed as Sal made his final move, arm raised to strike another blow while Michael’s back was turned, too humiliated to care about maintaining a fair fight. But Michael either guessed his approach or heard it behind him, because he dodged out of the way smoothly, letting Sal’s fist land heavy against nothing but air. He made another lunge, and Michael avoided it easily, knocking Sal’s arm out to the side again like he’d done earlier. But instead of full-palming his head out of the way, Michael _laid_ into him, his right fist coming up to land blow after blow into Sal’s cheek and neck, a whirlwind of frantic hits that were over just as quickly as they began, ending with a heavy uppercut that knocked the underdog out immediately, and he fell hard against the ground.

The crowd _roared,_ and Michael forgot his anger long enough to grin at the sound, teeth still shining around the gush of blood that coated them. The announcer was screaming something, but it was lost in the rising tide of the crowd, all of whom were cheering, regardless of who they had bet on. The only two people who weren’t hyped on the infectious victory that flooded the crowd were Sal’s friends, who were urgently trying to pull the bulking dead-weight of man out of the ring to a recovery area.   
  
Ray grinned to himself, a sudden restlessness settling over his bones, and he wanted nothing more than to join those people that were reveling in Michael's victory. Michael was only half surrendering to them, soaking in their approval but maintaining his distance from the the ones that strayed too close, still hesitant, even in his euphoria. He was smiling through the blood on his teeth, sweat glistening his skin as he breathed heavily in his recovery, but Ray could seeing him eyeing the stage exit greedily, torn between allowing these people to consume him and bask in their admiration, and the safety of privacy. 

Safety won out, and as Michael raised his arm in appreciation for their cheers, he took several steady steps backwards towards the exit. Ray took the sign as a signal for his own retreat, and hastily righted himself on the catwalk, heading towards the door to the roof with adrenaline pumping heavy through his veins. 

 

///

 

 

His fingers twitched at his side, urgently looking for something to grip and move. He was desperate to alleviate the stillness that plagued the high-rise garage in that transcendent hour when the night-life had been carefully tucked away in muskier clubs that didn’t bother with ID checks. The air inside felt lighter the higher he climbed, as though the clamor of the city was subdued by the thick slabs of concrete that seemed almost pristine on the inside when compared to abuse that littered the sides exposed to San Andreas.

He was tense, still stuck between two moments in time -- Michael's fight, violent and aggressive and  _hungry,_ and the quiet atmosphere that now settled around him, trying to desperately to rip that feeling away.

Ray ignored the shiver in his spine as he dug the sad remains of his earlier blunt from his pocket, relieved it was still in one piece. He was halfway to struggling to light it when he turned the final bend to his car, eyes dragging up from his own quiet footfalls to rest upon the figure that leaned casually against his beautiful, shit-stained Vacca.

He stopped, and the man raised his eyes, brown orbs that began judging Ray almost immediately, head to converse-clad toe. His wild hair had been slicked down to manageable levels, a dusty auburn that felt so familiar in it’s own alien way, like a friend Ray hadn’t seen since he was a child. The figure pushed himself away from Ray’s car, straightening the cuffs on his stiff suit-jacket as though he’d been mildly inconvenienced on his way to accept _numerous_ personal awards.

“Fuck,” Ray muttered, steeling himself for whatever bullshit he truly wasn’t ready to face as he tossed the blunt bitterly to the ground. “You can’t be good news.”

No immediate response, so Ray felt safe enough to fully address the could-be threat. The guy was dressed well enough to garner the same level of apprehension he had awarded Geoff in their first meeting, but his expression was diluted and soft, and his demeanor radiated a weak disposition that even clothing couldn’t hide. Ray gave him a quick one once over, easily coming to the conclusion that the man before him wore a suit to hide his brittle naivety, while Geoff’s attire merely amplified his kingpin status.

Ray ground his rejected blunt into the concrete. “Judging by your get-up, you must be here to summon me to court. What’d they catch me doing this time? Illegal parking?”

The guy scoffed at him, a familiar expression that eased its way easily across his face, and Ray already knew what kind of a leader he must be. No wonder he had no one to delegate this job to, whatever it was.

“Ray Narvaez. You think you’re a big man, now that Ramsey’s taken you under his wing? A year ago, you’d be pissing yourself at this…”

He flashed his piece from the confines of that pristine, navy blue jacket, but Ray kept his eyes trained to the man’s expression, watching the telltale signs of hesitation, the phantom stumbling of self-confidence. That instantaneous belittlement might have been a neon fucking sign for how out of his league this fuckhead was. Ray rolled his eyes.

“Look, can I help you with something, buddy? Because if I wanted to be flashed all night by shit that doesn’t impress me, there’s about twenty fucking titty bars--”

“Shut up,” the man snapped, clearly not used to getting lip. “I’m not here to waste my time listening to your--”

“--No, but you wasted a lot of time waiting for me though, didn’t you?”

The man paused, caught off guard, and Ray continued, digging his foot distractedly into a crack in the concrete beneath him. “Way I see it, you’re here for _me_ , not the other way around, and I don’t give two shits if I waste your time or not. So if you want to say what you came here to say, lose the holier-than-thou attitude, put your fucking dick away, and tell me straight -- what the fuck do you want?”

Ray could have mirrored the bewilderment on the man’s face. He imagined that his first time alone in a confrontation would have had him reverting back to the fearful demeanor that had been sitting dormant in the base of his spine for the past year. He couldn’t figure out if adrenaline was still coursing through him, giving him the confidence to mouth off to a stranger that could be literally anything (a Vago representative? A man with a vendetta?), but he was soaking in his own confidence, letting the knowledge that he could absolutely take this fuck fuel his brazen nature.

The man seemed to be on the same train as thought, and sneered ruefully at him.

“All the reports I had on you pegged you as a little bitch. Guess having my brother’s dick up your ass has been good to you. Ironic.”

Ray felt the exact moment that time seemed to slow. The man’s lips formed the word ‘brother’ with unbearable density, and his throat tightened as the world around him became enclosed and hazy. For the agonizing seconds that it took the man in front of him to finish his sentence, Ray felt weightless, burdened by decisions he knew he was going to have to make, overwhelmed with the crazed desire to escape this moment, to pretend that it wasn’t here, happening, ripping apart his self control.

He had his pistol pulled from his jeans before he was cognizant of doing so. The haze was clearing from his mind just enough that he caught the last jagged edges of his own words.

“--why I shouldn’t just shoot you, right fucking now?”

The fog of incredulity was rapidly being replaced by a ferocious anger. David. _David._ He was standing right in front of him, the sole bane of Michael’s continued existence, the reason Michael checked his condo for signs of entry with a sad, pathetic familiarity, the reason he monitored his crew’s whereabouts a little too obsessively, half the reason he’d lost his fucking _faith in humanity._

To David’s credit, his arms shot up in a casual surrender almost immediately, and he looked unexpectedly surprised.

“Whoa, man. He told you about me?”

The blatant shock in his words sent a flare of pride through Ray’s core that only fueled his aggression, and he clicked the safety off. “Of course he fucking did.”

“Okay, okay!” David panicked slightly, his palms open-ended to assure Ray he wasn’t a threat. “Listen, I know Ramsey knows about my history with Michael. Right?” He paused, allowing Ray to consider. “Yeah, think, man. There’s probably a reason why his crew hasn’t kicked my fucking door down already. Fucking _think!_  Don’t just pull a goddamn gun on me you fucking _idiot_.”

Ray paused, chewing his lip as he tried to quell the anger that was snaking its way through his core. “Michael doesn’t want you dead,” he reasoned, and he knew he was on the dot when a sick, sadistic smile crept across the edges of David’s mouth, easily replacing the panic. Ray sneered. “You don’t deserve that compassion.”

“Who are you to decide what I deserve?” David snapped back, taking the momentary lull in Ray’s anger to regain his solid ground in the conversation, to climb back on his pedestal as he lowered his arms. “You, the stupid, useless boy from New York, who found himself equally useless in San Andreas? It was pure fucking luck you got tangled up with Ramsey and his crew, blight they are on this city.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I bet you’re a real straight shooter, aren’t you, David?”

David tensed, his jaw ticking. Ray really couldn’t figure out how he had made it in politics when his tells were as large as his ego.

“Maybe not. But hey, at least I’ve never murdered my own parents--”

“That was an accident--”

David scoffed. “Why? Is that what he told you? Michael had it out for my dad for a long time, he’d just been waiting for the fucking opportunity. My dad was a _good_ man, and he worked hard for what we had--”

“Which was what, massive gambling debts and a dad with a coke habit that would make Peru jealous?”

David made a move that might have been the beginnings of an ill-advised backhand (because Ray was fairly certain the man had never taken a proper swing at anything except a secretary), but Ray twitched his trigger finger and tilted his head in warning.

“Hey! Watch it. Michael’s brother or not, you pose a threat to me and I bet you he won’t feel too terribly bad about what I had to do. Now, I don’t want to hear your fucking sob story about your dead parents, or your misguided blame. I want to know what the _fuck_ you’re doing next to my car, _why_ you thought approaching me was a smart move, and how much longer I need to suffer through your company. And try to hurry it up -- I’ve got a botched hit attempt to celebrate with your significantly more attractive brother.”

David’s hands went back into the pockets of his pricey slacks, feigning a casual nature that fooled neither of them. Ray could almost see the cogs turning in David’s head as he decided just how far he wanted to test these unknown waters. He stared Ray down with a heavy glare, chewing the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

“You shot my best man just now.”

Ray didn’t hesitate -- “Then find better men.”

David cracked his neck, impatient. “The fuck you think I’m doing here, city boy?

Ray’s eyes narrowed, and he replayed the words through his head, willing them to make sense. Surely David wasn’t stupid enough to try and hire Ray to betray the only person that had given him even a semblance of a meaningful future?

“Get the fuck out of here,” Ray snorted.

“Listen, I’m serious,” David reasoned, sounding urgent in ways he hadn’t all of twenty seconds ago, when nothing but agitation had filled his persona, and Ray’s bullshit meter was reading off the charts. “I know you’re too deep in right now to leave, I get it. But the Fakes have pissed off the wrong people for too long, and I hate to break it to you, but these local gangs, they’ve been embedded here for generations, and they don’t think Ramsey’s disrespect for their legacy is as cute as you pricks think it is. Shit’s about to go down, and I’m trying to offer you a way out.”

The warning was curling around Ray’s insides, begging for consideration as it jerked the contents of his stomach, but he pushed it aside. “Why the fuck would you care about what happens to me? Why this whole, corner-me-in-the-dark bullshit?”

“Because Michael is _not_ what you think he is, and neither is Geoff. Michael will get whatever short-lived satisfaction out of you that he wants, and you’ll realize pretty fucking quickly that he played you. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it once you’re gone. The kid killed his own mother, his father, teenagers, cops, _loads_ of innocents, and you want to pretend he’s got an ounce of compassion left for you? I’m trying to help you avoid a bloodbath here, because I don’t want to see someone with your talent go the same way as so many others.”

Ray stared blankly at him, almost disappointed with how pathetic the plea was. David was hitting his insecurities on the mark, but they weren’t burrowing. They were Ray’s fears, his inadequacies, but they were all hollow, unsupported by facts and as easily dismissed as the nerves that had lingered in Ray’s thoughts before Michael’s fight.

It was a bit sad, really. “Your own brother… and you don’t know him at all, do you?”

The pleading look in David’s face melted, replace by a cold indifference. “Fine. Believe what you want. But watch, Michael will fuck you over, just as he fucked over my family. Who had you nearly traded to the Vagos? Who had you on lockdown for six fucking months, like an animal? Who twisted your life into something you don’t even recognize anymore?”

Ray studied him, discontent bubbling in him at the blanket statements, as if Michael’s involvement in his life could be defined by so little.

“Michael altered both of our lives, sure” Ray mused. “But only one of us is cowering at the sight of a gun, lurking in the dark, and lying through his fucking teeth. And, oddly enough, only one of us is blaming Michael for it. _Maybe_ \-- and hear me out here -- _maybe_ you’re just a bitter piece of shit because you know that, despite his profession and despite his mistakes, Michael is a far better man than you’d _ever_ be.”

“Fuck you!” David swore back, and Ray nearly jolted at the sudden resemblance, the same curl of anger that gave Michael’s smile that alarming quality. It wasn’t nearly as heavy or toxic, but the similarities were there, and Ray’s heart panged at the knowledge of Michael’s torment. To look at this man and see parts of himself, to see the only remainder of his family, and to know that the other wanted nothing but to utterly ruin him.

“We’re done here,” Ray sighed heavily, moving to shoo David away from his car. “You’re a waste of fucking time.”

“Ten million dollars.”

Ray startled, locking eyes with the focused, if not displaced, man in front of him. “What did you say?”

“Ten million dollars, and a private plane out of San Andreas to anywhere you want to go. No paper trail, no connections -- hell, you can even shoot the pilot when you land if you want.”

“For what?” Ray responded, completely bewildered. David’s frantic changes of pace and tactics were exhausting, and he couldn’t figure out if the man was desperate, or just unpracticed.

“I need a mole,” David explained quickly. “I just need to know where they’ll be, so I can head them off with the whole fucking LSPD at my side, and within year they’ll all be convicted and sent to death row. There will be no bail, none of their affiliated defense attorneys, none of their usual bullshit -- they will have _nothing._ They will never find you, and you’ll be in fucking… Tahiti, I don’t know, before they even realize what’s gone wrong.”

Ray shook his head, bordering the lines of amusement and annoyance. “Dude, seriously, just stop. There isn’t shit you can say that’ll convince me to take a deal. Just go home, and pray Michael doesn’t change his mind about keeping you under his protection.”

He circled around David to unlock his car, and the man seemed to at least be smart enough to maneuver out of the way. Ray slipped inside gracefully and closed the door, still watching David’s hands, still on edge about the layers of desperation that were being flayed from the older man’s body. Something wasn’t right about this situation, and he could feel it prickling across his skin. He wanted to get the fuck out of there. He wanted to go _home_ and beg Michael to let him take this piece of shit out before he could consider any of that war-mongering to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

David held his hand out to stop him from moving, a bid for a final word, and Ray indulged him, rolling down his window. He watched carefully as David moved much too close.

“Does he…” David hesitated, seeming uncomfortable. _Confused._ “Does he love you?”

Ray didn’t answer immediately, content to drive away and let the question hang awkwardly in the air. But there was something compelling in the query, something that might even be construed as misplaced empathy, and Ray had the faint hope that maybe, something in his answer might change David’s outlook.

“He does.”

David reached out and gripped the edge of Ray’s sleeve, the other hand finding balance against the open window and Ray locked onto the desperation in his eyes, nervously jerking his arm out of David’s grip as the taller man asked, “And you? Do you love him?”

Ray paused again, letting the foreboding feeling sink into him heavily until it passed. The words felt like a turning point, but he wasn’t sure which story they were affecting.

“Yes, I do.”  


///

 

Michael wasn’t pleased.

Ray had taken the long way home, drifting along the edges of the coast to wrap his head around the encounter he never thought he’d have to respectfully entertain. By the time he had formulated what he wanted to say and stepped into Michael’s living room, the reigning champion had already showered and had an ice pack pressed up against his brutally abused cheek.

“The fuck have you been, man?”

He sat down gingerly on the couch next to a glowering Michael, feeling the dip in the cushions like the weight of his heart. Ray had considered _not_ telling him, not entirely thrilled at effectively ruining Michael’s perfect night, but there were thirty thousand ways that could come back to bite him in the ass, and he wasn’t taking chances with their safety.

He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again, willing his words to dig themselves out of his throat.

“Had a chat with your brother.”

He could _feel_ Michael tense next to him, rigid to the point where Ray was sure those fine-tuned muscles would snap. The world suddenly felt on the edge of a pin and Ray stared decidedly at the floor, unwilling to shift the dynamic even more than he just did, worried that he’d send them careening off balance.

He waited for Michael to speak, but when he didn’t, Ray took the chance to try and placate the sudden swell of emotion he could feel in the man next to him.

“He was in the parking garage, waiting by my car--”

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”

Ray looked up, and Michael was staring him down, a wild panic in his eyes that couldn’t be defined as one clear-cut emotion. Fear, frustration, confusion, they were all morphing together to create something rare and broken, a foreign expression on an otherwise confident man.

“What, you mean like, after?”

“After, during, fucking _anytime_!”

“I’m sorry, man. It was a bit weird, I needed to clear my head--”

“What did he do?”

Ray chanced another look after those soft, worried words. Michael had dropped the ice pack from his cheek and was watching Ray expectantly, urgently, the bruise that swallowed half his cheek only serving to make him look as wounded as he sounded.

“He didn’t do anything,” Ray tried to mollify, “He flashed his piece at me to make a point, and I might have almost shot him, but--”

“--so you _didn’t_ shoot him?”

At this, the half-surprised warp that twisted Michael’s words into something a little too vulnerable, Ray leveled him with a stern glare.  

“No, I didn’t fucking shoot him. And why didn’t I, Michael? Why hasn’t _any_ one killed that fucking dickhead? What _exactly_  would be stopping them?”

Michael, for his credit, caught onto Ray’s tone quickly and turned his head away. “He told you he was under my protection,” he finally reasoned, sounding resigned and defeated in a way that bordered closely to shame. A frustration rose within Ray, and he quickly decided that he was entangled enough in Michael’s bullshit that he owed Ray at least _some_ toleration for his questions.

“Michael, are you serious? Why do you let that guy keep fucking with you? I could have had him tonight, and you -- you guys -- you could’ve had him ten times over by now.”

Michael shrugged, and it was the most poignant, offhand gesture Ray had ever seen, and it _hurt_ to watch as all those underlying reasons were so casually swept aside. “He’s my brother, man.”

Ray rubbed his eyes furiously at the response and ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts and figure out _something_ to say to that before he drew blood from digging his teeth too hard into his lip.

“Okay. Alright, fine. We’re gonna put that aside for a minute. We need to talk to Geoff, and like, _now._ ”

“Geoff?” Michael looked up at him curiously. “The fuck for?”

“Because… okay, look. Your brother clearly has no idea how to operate in the streets, right? But you said he bullshitted his way into his position, so he’s good with words. Book smarts, but no street smarts.”

“Yeah, he’s the next fucking Hemingway, Ray,” Michael snorted irritably. “What’s your goddamn point?”

“My point,” Ray snapped back, fear and realization battling for dominance over the racing of his heart. “Is that the asshole I just talked to was an idiot. Like a fucking...moody teenager or something. It was like he was just talking to get me to --”

Ray paused, replaying the scene in his head. The awkward juts in David’s speech, the desperate bids for Ray’s reactions, the oddly therapeutic goodbye, when David displayed just enough emotion and remorse for Ray to let him get close.

“Motherfucker…” Ray muttered, and started tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie, straightening out the creases and running careful fingers along the fabric.

Michael started with “What the hell are you--” but broke it off instantly as Ray plucked a tiny, easily dismissed black circular piece of plastic, with only the barest hint of a wire poking out of the side. Michael snarled in realization, took it from Ray’s fingers, and quickly ground it into the coffee table, snapping the plastic in on itself.

“He fucking bugged you?” Michael cursed, turning to run his hands over the remainder of Ray’s hoodie, eyes glinting with a furious discontent. “Why the fuck was he even that close? How’d he get so close to you?”

“He played me,” Ray sighed in defeat, willing the fury down. He was _livid,_ which settled sickly alongside the humiliation at having fallen for such an obvious ruse. But he had to be the combatant to Michael’s anger, otherwise they’d just feed off of each other’s recklessness until neither of them were coherent enough to make rational decisions.

“Fucking _dick,_ ” Michael hissed, still feeling across Ray’s clothes, looking for more bugs that Ray knew he wouldn’t find, but he indulged the attention regardless. Michael needed an out, he needed something to focus his hands on while he processed the influx of information, and there were worse things he could be doing than giving Ray the once-over.

But something was still hanging heavy inside of Ray’s gut, the same skin-prickling feeling he had gotten from David’s very presence, and some animalistic sense was urging him to delve further than the outlying ruse. Something foreboding was churning his stomach, putting his nerves on edge, and he gently stopped Michael’s hands in their tracks, urging the mess of a man to focus long enough to look at him.

“How soon until Geoff gets back?”

Michael looked ready to argue the change of subject, his mouth halfway towards forming the words of dismissal, but whatever he saw in Ray’s expression changed his intentions, and his body stilled.

“Flight comes in tomorrow afternoon, why?”

“Because I need to tell him, word for word, exactly what your brother just told me. He said he’s ready to bust you guys, withhold the legal processing and have a judge sign off on the death penalty. He said he wants me as a mole, to feed him information so LSPD can get the jump on you, but--”

“But what?” Michael protested sharply, the cut of his voice negated by the way he traced his thumb softly across the bend in Ray’s fingers. “He had to have known you wouldn’t take the deal.”

Ray swallowed thickly, fragments from the previous months sliding into better focus, aligning in a way they hadn’t before. Too many things started making sense, and the weight in his stomach got heavier, swirling around his gut with the very beginnings of panic.

“Yeah, but someone’s been feeding Geoff rumors that I’m not who I say I am.” Ray swallowed heavily. “I don’t think… I’m not the person David’s trying to convince, man.”

He looked up at Michael for reassurance, for any hint of consolation that his fears were entirely unwarranted, but instead, Ray only found his same worries staring back at him, etched across Michael’s broken features.

Silence wove between them, and Ray once again looked out at those stars beyond the window, the ones that had seen him through his time in the gutters, his tentative and budding relationship with the man he now loved, and his rise to truly _living_.

Tonight, those stars were dim, and the sensation of Michael’s hands in his had never felt more fragile.

For the first time in a long time, he was truly afraid.     



	18. 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long time between updates, I know it, BUT, I'm happy to say that this work is completely finished on my laptop. I had intended on only making it 18 chapters with the addition of an epilogue, but the final portion turned out to be over double the words I usually put into a chapter, so I'm splitting it up. The next half, along with an epilogue, will be out before the month is over. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your patience, and a huge thanks to Paintlopedia for being my beta! Yes guys, I finally have someone to look over my stories after two years. A desperately needed miracle.

Ray doesn’t remember how long they sat there, lost together in the web of their own thoughts, thinking in parallels and winding circles around the questions they couldn’t grasp an answer to. It felt like only minutes before Michael was standing, pulling Ray up gently beside him, but the darkness outside had grown deeper, and his body ached from stiffness. 

“C’mon. Ain’t shit we can do about it right now, and I’m fucking tired.”

And Michael did look it, fatigue from the fight still lingering in the bags underneath his eyes, tenderized by a heavy drowsiness that accompanied the hefty painkillers he’d taken to ease the throbbing swell across his cheekbone. 

Ray nodded, letting himself be brought to his feet, trying to ignore the sad pang of his heart as Michael shuffled over and double checked the security measures on his doors. As nonchalant as Michael could pretend to be, Ray knew he was afraid. He couldn’t blame Michael for his slip of character, but after his encounter with David, Ray wasn’t sure if Michael’s fear stemmed from a concern for his own life, or from finally losing the weak reasoning he retained to keep David alive.

He shook the ridiculous notion that Michael feared more for David’s life than his own, and surrendered it to the enveloping tide of the unknown that threatened to overtake them. He could do nothing about it, and festering on it would only lead to insomnia and more unanswered questions. 

“I should shower,” Ray mumbled lightly, glancing at the dirt streaks that still littered his jeans from where he’d crawled along the rafters. 

“You’re fine,” Michael responded quickly, turning down the stairs to the bedroom while Ray followed steadily behind him. The room below was graced with a faint purple glow, a reflection of the aesthetic lighting that plastered the high-rise across the street, but Michael never shut the curtains. Never secluded himself from the city. 

“I’ll get your sheets all fucked up,” Ray started, fully aware of Michael’s near debilitating need for cleanliness and respect, but Michael just glowered at him as he undid his pants. 

“Then I’ll get new fucking sheets, alright? Shut up about it.”

And of course, Ray recognized that bid for complacency, the tinge of fabricated anger that belied Michael’s frustration with Ray trying to prod and examine their unspoken rituals. And the last thing Ray wanted was Michael’s grievances outside of friendly teasing, so he only smiled softly, still a little broken, and followed Michael’s silent order to disrobe. 

Any thought of sexual scenarios for that night were now fully buried under the weight of the trepidation and Michael's fatigue. There was too much unease surrounding Ray’s confrontation, and they slid into bed together with no desires other than company and reassurance. 

Ray gave thought to voicing his curiosities, to ask if anything even  _ resembling  _ a label should be applied to them now, since they were both still clinging unsurely to the present, afraid to turn the pages of their future in case the other was absent. But as Michael moved up against him, a warm body that pulled Ray into an embrace, sinking his face into the tender flesh of the bend in Ray’s neck, he decided it was the only validation he really needed. Any other would just undermine what they were, how they came to be, and the unorthodox ride it had taken to get them there. 

Michael passed out almost immediately, and despite his mind working overtime, burning holes in his skull, Ray followed soon after, arms wrapped around an aloof man who --  _ maybe  _ \-- cared just a little too much.     
  


///

 

Michael wouldn’t be roused until well into the afternoon, and Ray hadn’t the heart to prod him for attention. They were better this way, since Ray needed his seclusion just as badly as Michael needed his recovery, and from the moment Ray woke around midday, he did everything in his power to ensure Michael’s peace. Noise was kept to a minimum when he showered, and he feasted on microwave pizza so they’d be no clanging of dishes (although regardless, he ate like shit when Michael didn’t cook for them).

He was heavily delved into the first portion of a new game, TV turned all the way down while he blared sound through his expensive headset when Michael dipped the cushions beside him, hair in disarray and eyes brighter than they’d been the previous night. The swelling in his cheek had gone down significantly, leaving only an angry red and black blossom that tainted the otherwise light and freckled skin.

“Hey, sunshine,” Ray drawled, one leg up on the coffee table as he leveled his virtual rifle against an enemy. “Sleep well?”

Michael shifted against the couch, and Ray noticed that, while Michael hadn’t relaxed yet, he didn’t necessarily seem tense. Just alert. Poised. He glanced at Ray’s game without much interest before roving his eyesight across the expanse of Ray’s body laid out before him, and Ray had to will his heart out of his throat at the unabashed, greedy countenance that lined Michael's devilish eyes. He'd woken up in a hell of a mood, and Ray withheld a shudder knowing he was the subject of Michael's _particular_ interests. 

“Woke up lonely,” Michael declared conversationally, but there was an underlying suggestion in his tone, and Ray picked it out as easily as he’d fine-tuned all of Michael’s characteristics down to indisputable facts.

“Yeah, well, you needed sleep, and I’ve learned not to wake you up.”

Michael snorted, his attention still fixated on Ray as he tugged the frayed edges of his shirt with restless fingers. “You’re still bitching about that huh? It wasn’t even that  _ bad-- _ ”

Ray interrupted Michael with a pointed glare and started counting on his fingers, “--Once, you told me to hijack a car when you were supposed to have me under lock and key, another time, you pointed a loaded gun at my fucking  _ head  _ \-- at my  _ brain,  _ I need that shit -- Oh, and the last time, you literally almost left me on the side of the road when I woke you up during a stakeout.”

“You were sleeping too!”

“Yeah but I woke  _ up  _ when I was supposed to--”

“I woke up to see your drool all over the dashboard of my Adder, how do you want me to react?”

“Well  _ excuse  _ me for staying hydrated--”

“Fine,” Michael held up his arms in acquiescence, his lips quirking in amusement. “I promise I won’t try to physically injure you if you wake me up in an idiotic way again.”

Ray raised his eyebrow, still trying to remain focused on his game while fully enjoying the tease that was smoldering between them. “Is there an acceptable method of waking you up that I don’t know about? Should I open the windows, let the birds come in and sing you awake while they do your laundry?”

“Not exactly,” Michael muttered through his smile, and Ray was too focused on keeping his eyesight away from a traitorous view that he didn’t catch sight of Michael’s fingers until it was far too late. They were sliding up to tease at the hem of his pajama pants, coy and just inspired enough to send Ray’s mind slamming into a haze of instantaneous interest. “But I could show you what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Ray breathed out with a laugh, and was almost embarrassed at how hard he had to work to keep his voice level as he paused his game and turned to meet Michael’s eyes. “Yeah, let’s definitely do that. I’m a hands-on learner, after all.”

Michael grinned at him fully, both hands coming to tug at the waistband of Ray’s pants, dipping his fingers over the elastic to run against the heated flesh that rested just out of his sight. Ray adjusted, moving his body backwards to brace himself against the arm of the couch as Michael maneuvered easily between his legs, nimble and sole-minded. There was no hint of tease or seduction as he rucked Ray’s shirt up, just the heady sigh of a covetous man, content on pressing his lips against Ray’s newly-revealed skin until he could taste and kiss just enough to have Ray squirming beneath him.

Ray hadn’t been on the receiving end of Michael’s full affections yet, and his blood was rapidly draining southwards in the few seconds it took for Michael to gently nip at the skin around his navel. A small curse accompanied his grateful sigh, and Michael smiled to himself before he hooked his fingers in Ray’s pants and slipped them off completely.   

Ray gripped Michael’s bicep as cold, unwelcome air hit him like a fucking bat. He hissed in annoyance, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the nuances that played out on Michael’s face, the spark of lust that ignited those eyes the same way a fight did. Calloused fingers reached out and stroked him, rougher than they’d been in the shower without water to ease the friction, but Ray shivered at the reminder, at the unconventional thrill of what he had in front of him. 

He moved his hand up to thread through Michael’s curls, tugging experimentally, and to his absolute fucking  _ joy,  _ Michael made a small hum of appreciation and leaned encouragingly into the touch. 

“Yeah?” Ray breathed lightly, and Michael nodded, his hand slowly starting a rhythm that was curving Ray’s attention span down into the gutter.

“Yeah, absolutely.”

Emboldened by watching Michael’s eyes flutter closed as Ray tugged his fistful just a little harder, he slid his hand from the top of Michael’s head to the back, pushing gently, urging Michael's mouth towards where he was aching and hard. Michael went easily, almost instinctively, eyes opening just for a moment to lock with Ray’s, overwhelmingly confident in himself despite being an absolute novice. The look sent heat straight to the base of Ray’s spine, the unavoidable reminder of Michael’s larger-than-life presence, and he had to struggle not to close his eyes in blissful finality as Michael relented his tease and took the tip of him into his mouth. 

As Michael swirled his tongue around him, easing the way for his mouth to take Ray deeper, Ray had to bite hard into his bottom lip to keep his noises at a minimum. The hand not currently tangled in those auburn curls came up to squeeze encouragingly on Michael’s shoulder, feeling the clockwork thrum of Michael’s elevated pulse reaching past the edges of his throat to taper down his arms. 

To no one’s surprise, Michael took a cock like he took a fight: studious, passionately, and with a fair amount of smug elitism. Every appreciative jerk Ray made in response to Michael’s talented tongue had the fighter smirking through his efforts, but Ray was quick to learn that a sharp pull of Michael’s hair left him breathless and obedient again. It was the same fluctuating personality that Ray had grown accustomed to; a whirlwind, but solid, and easily defined. Michael was a mischievous little shit with the curls of his tongue, but he knew Ray would respond to that addictive behavior, and they were thriving on one another, an endless push and pull that had them both scrambling for purchase. 

When Michael’s fingers trailed down past his balls to brush up against him questioningly, Ray wasn’t expecting it, and he pushed Michael’s head down just a little too much in surprise. The moment his cock hit the back of Michael’s throat, the redhead swallowed the gag irritably, his eyes shining with unshed tears like he didn’t have the fucking  _ time  _ to be inconvenienced by a reflex. He swallowed dutifully around Ray’s cock as he adjusted, and Ray’s dick twitched  _ hard  _ in interest just from the soft sound of appreciation Michael made.

“Fuck,” Ray breathed, one hand cupping Michael’s cheek to attract his gaze, desperate for more. The resulting connection lit him up like a live-wire, tense yet loose, and all he could think about was how grateful he was to have a safe place to fall apart, how badly he wanted to bottle this moment, to relive it in the moments he’d need it. 

Michael watched him shudder through his upheaval patiently, lips spit-soaked and reddened just enough to match the stretch of bruise that painted itself across his cheekbone, but there was a flash of irritation in his eyes when Ray started groping for his phone. When he’d finally grabbed the slim plastic in his fingers and had Michael’s slowly bobbing head ready to record, he was legitimately surprised Michael hadn’t pulled away, offended, torn between his boastfulness and his pride. Instead, a sense of unknown lingered, and he gripped gently onto Ray’s thigh, seeking reassurance. There were too many questions in his eyes as he hesitated, Ray's phone representing an uncharted entity in their relationship.

Ray recognized the expression that followed, as it had lingered in the back of his own head for the past two days. 

_ What is this to you? What are we, to you? _

“Hey,” Ray coerced softly, his voice torn between a respectful intonation and an outright plead. “Just you and me, yeah? For the nights you’re gone.”

It was enough, and the steely, half-wounded hesitation that Michael allowed himself to be vulnerable enough to express was gone, replaced by that bubble of justified hope, of grateful relief. The stark reminder of shared emotions threw Ray for a fucking loop, as Michael’s confidence was always so brazen and outspoken that Ray had struggled to believe that Michael could ever have doubts about someone wanting him. About someone wanting to  _ keep  _ him. He curled his hand protectively around Michael’s neck, trying to placate, trying to fill in that patchwork quilt of Michael’s essence, to stitch him up where he could, and to gently acknowledge the places he couldn’t. Michael’s eyes fluttered closed, leaning into that ghost of a touch, thriving on it and everything it represented.

The moment was over nearly the second it began, and the world shifted as Michael twisted his tongue around him expertly again, moving so perfectly that Ray’s hand lingered more as a reminder than a necessity. Ray’s fingers fumbled as he hit record, and he was so focused on preserving this memory, half-crazed from how hot and beautiful Michael’s mouth was around him, that he didn’t notice the two fingers Michael was coating with spit under the guise of holding him steady at the base. 

He was so content to watch the way Michael gasped around his cock when Ray pulled on his hair just the right way that the sudden absence of Michael’s fingers were a back-burner concern. Michael’s free hand fanned out over Ray’s thigh, scraping little red marks with his nails that had Ray gasping and fisting those auburn locks harder, a never-ending cycle of pain-pleasure-pain that they excessively encouraged. The phone was shaking slightly in his hand as he breathed out Michael’s name, watching those lips around his cock, completely unaware of those sneaky fingers until Michael had slipped them inside with a sudden, lightning-fast thrust. The resulting flash of pleasure and surprise, wrapped neatly around a sting of pain, made him jump, and he cursed in surprise.

“Fucking Christ, Michael!”

He had dropped the camera, and Michael pulled off of him to laugh as Ray scrambled to locate it among his discarded pants. His fingers fumbled across the sleek screen, searching distractedly for the button to end the recording as Michael kept pumping his fingers deep into Ray, free hand curled around his spit-slick dick. 

“Yeah, great video Ray,” he laughed mockingly, and Ray really should have fucking  _ known,  _ because Michael had been playing the subordinate far too beautifully, but he couldn’t help the grin that flit over his expression as he clicked his phone off and tossed it to the end of the couch. He relaxed back into the cushions, running a hand through Michael’s hair fondly, half teasingly, half impatient, already missing the curl of Michael’s tongue around him.

“You’re such a piece of shit, Jones”

Michael smirked. “I definitely want a copy of that though.”

He was still stroking Ray’s cock, still had those fingers buried inside of him and hitting at just the right angle, and Ray was struggling to keep a hold on the conversation. Michael, utterly pleased with himself, watched Ray struggle through his relinquishment of the upper hand with a knowing and cocky grin. And as much as loved bending to Michael's will, Ray couldn’t help the selfish desire to put a whine back into Michael’s throat and level the playing field.

“You think that’s funny?” He asked gently, tightening the grip in Michael’s hair  _ hard,  _ and the soft exhale of surprise more than fueled Ray’s baser instincts. It was the sound of a warrior brought to his knees, and Ray bit down hard into his lip at the reaction it garnered from both of them. Michael’s eyes had already fluttered closed again, fully sated and switch-flipped at Ray’s rough treatment. Ray’s eyesight tracked over what was his, obsessed with having Michael pliant and obedient, such a foreign arrangement to their normal routine. The indomitable was at his mercy,  and it created a high like no other.

To Michael’s credit, he barely even gagged as Ray shoved himself hilt-deep down his throat. There was a hint of surprise as he dug his fingers into Ray’s thigh, but the heady moan that was muffled around his cock gave Ray all the answers he needed concerning Michael’s approval. He cursed lowly and was overtaken by the heat of Michael’s mouth, feeling Michael’s warm exhale directly against his skin, burning him alive from the inside out. 

He started a slow pace, letting Michael adjust to having him buried so deeply in his throat, and Michael easily matched Ray’s shallow thrusts with his fingers. The dual sensation had Ray bordering on a perpetual white-out, soft, meaningless praises falling from his lips as he watched Michael take him like he’d been  _ wasted  _ on doing anything else. And Michael was hungry for the direction, shivering whenever Ray’s hands gripped a little too tightly, following Ray’s guidance and letting himself be maneuvered and admired. It was only a few minutes of whimful pacing and small gasps of pleasure before Ray could feel himself reaching a breaking point, and when he shoved Michael’s head down particularly hard, earning the sweetest of whimpers from the usually composed champion, he had to pull Michael off of himself quickly to avoid finishing early.

Michael gasped for air when Ray finally freed him, and his cheeks were tinged red from exertion and arousal. Ray was breathing heavily, willing his orgasm to wait,  _ please,  _ _just wait_ , but Michael’s fingers were still teasing him, a never-ending pulse of pleasure that shot an unbridled need across every neuron in his body.

“Close already?” Michael teased breathlessly, his voice shot to hell, and Ray had to take several seconds to realize that  _ words  _ were passing through those deliciously swollen lips. 

“Fuck you,” he cursed back, scooting down lower on the couch to give Michael better access. “Have you seen yourself? You have an unfair advantage.”

Michael didn’t exactly answer with words, but the way his eyes roved over every inch of Ray’s skin like he was mapping out a future conquest felt sarcastic and pointed in its own right. He eased down his own drawstring pants in response, already sporting a wet spot from where he’d been all but ignoring his own aching, constrained cock. Ray did nothing but watch with weak delirium as Michael pulled himself out, running a finger across the heady traces of precome and lubing himself up as best he could with it. 

“All I could think about was this, from the moment I woke up,” Michael admitted hungrily, bracing himself on the couch and adjusting Ray’s hips to better align with him. His voice cut a heavy slice through the thick air between them. “I don’t know if it’s from wanting you for so long, or…” He paused, and Ray searched his face frantically, dazed, trying to read all those things Michael wouldn’t say. “...Or what, but I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon.” He pushed into Ray slowly, teasing the head against Ray’s rim as he ran his hand up Ray’s inner thigh. “You gonna be okay with that?”

Ray breathed out heavily, trying to bear down on the hard expanse he could feel against him. Michael was asking the same questions Ray had been wanting answers to, but there would be no ‘big talk,’ no conventional titles or declarations. Ray knew Michael wouldn’t want them, not after the trauma, and honestly, watching Michael sink into him, his eyes wide in wonderment and appreciation, Ray didn’t need all that shit anyway. Enough was said in the way Michael’s hands ran down his hips, his chest, his arms, the caress hardening to a stiff grip every time Ray tightened; it was said in the way Michael leaned down and breathed Ray’s name reverently into his neck; it was said in all those moments of silence, the late night drives and quiet understanding, the small moments of affinity, the reassurance of a single, simple look. 

“Yeah,” Ray breathed through his grimace as Michael filled him completely. “Fucking absolutely.”

Words between them ceased as they moved, and Ray’s knuckles turned white from how desperately he had to clutch the couch, both from Michael’s earnest thrusts, and the sense of something  _ otherworldly  _ that enveloped them. The feeling came like a tide, waves of adoration and disbelief fusing together with the pleasure that had both of them breathing heavy and hot. Hands were everywhere, deliriously trying to touch and  _ feel _ , overwhelmed with some debilitating urgency to build upon that perfect pinpoint in time. The moment their eyes met, electric shock seized every muscle in Ray’s body, those brown orbs effectively ending every sense of inadequacy he had ever known. In one single, beautiful minute, they became the gravity of the world, outshining even the brightest of stars, pulling every sensation, emotion, and transcendent wonderment into a gravitational pull that surrounded them, engulfed them. 

Ray dug his hands into Michael’s back, wrought and raw with the sudden influx of passion, and Michael shuddered and buried himself in Ray’s neck in response, still moving inside of him like he could never grow weary of being so invested. He inhaled sharply as Ray tightened instinctively around him, and then--

“Stay with me.”

Ray could have startled at the intensity in Michael’s voice, at the collection of words so rarely used that they sounded rough, tugged across the harsh expanse of Michael’s dissociation until they were weathered and fragile but decidedly  _ there.  _ But instead, he curled his arms around Michael’s shoulders, the air alive and reactionary in their own sanctuary of fluid atmosphere, and pulled them together, his own wants and affirmations caught in this throat at the unraveling of his own disbelief. 

The movement allowed Michael to get deeper, a gasp opening his lips as he shook, losing himself to that inclusive pull that was making everything around them heavy and wild and fleeting. That gaze, the one Ray knew so well, torn apart by ferocity, quelled by the family Michael had found in his crew, roved over him, avoiding the direct connection that might break them both of their resolve to finally say what had been fueling their recklessness. “Stay with me, whatever happens. Ray--”

Ray was nodding, his focus deterred by the haze of inebriating pleasure that built an insurmountable wall between him and his coherency. Michael’s fingers were a striped searing slide as they skimmed and held, and Ray’s body was a leaden, molten thing, too dizzy from gratification to speak that litany of dedication that was consistently setting his nerves and heart aflame. With a growl of appreciation at the dazed and satiated look on Ray’s face, Michael’s thrusts increased in intensity, a warning sign of their shared completion, and the snap of his hips jolted Ray out of whatever abyss he’d fallen into, the gasp of his lips finally loosening his tongue. 

“Always,” he gasped out, whimsical and promising and gritty in a way that Ray’s come to define as the ever-evolving cycle of his life. His hand cradled Michael’s cheek in a way that bordered beyond a casual, sexual intimacy, and there was a tug of something undefinable in his gut that had nothing to do with lust. “Always stay with you.”

Michael was tumbling over words in response, movements of his mouth that went from a quiet cadence of reverence to barely bitten-off curses that had Ray’s name looped around them in a guttural, possessive fashion. Michael was moving hard and fast, the grip he had on Ray bruising metaphorical fingerprints to match the physical marks he’ll have across the expanse of his hips, but Ray was enraptured, as he’d always been, wrapped around Michael with an undeniable and resolute thrall. 

A flash of brown, fiery and unquestionably devoted, and Ray was gone, tripping unexpectedly over the edge in a clinch and crush that locked Michael inside of him while sparks lit up the base of his spine, fanning out until his veins were sizzling and his eyesight was warbled. His muscles clenched hard as he came, Michael’s name on his lips as he wound the sensation around the words, forever entwining their association, and Michael’s thrusts turned erratic, a weak cry on his lips as he sputtered through his completion like a flickering candle, caught in an updraft. 

Ray’s last, cognizant thought before Michael collapsed on top of them and they both surrendered to the welcoming blackness of satisfaction was as startling as it was comforting. 

_ Oh fuck, he is everything to me.  _

  
  
///  
  
  


It was raining when Geoff returned to 642 Bradbury, and Ray couldn’t stop tapping his fingers against the wood of the meeting table, no matter how petulant Michael’s gaze grew. His nerves were fried, and not even the twenty minutes of reassurance that Michael had graced him with during their morning travel had been able to tame the rising swell of foreboding in his gut. 

Geoff shook the fragments of water from his hair as he stepped over the threshold with a sigh, a leisurely king pining for the comfort of his throne. Ryan was sprawled neatly across the couch with a nearly-finished book, one of his many dogs curled against the carpet beneath him. There was a hefty murmur of welcome when the kingpin strode in, but Geoff waved them off as he threw himself into the nearest office chair. 

“Aaah shut up. Where’s Jack and Gavin?”

“Jack’s flight doesn’t get in until tomorrow, and Gavin’s with Meg,” Michael supplied, his feet kicked up on the table as he tipped back perilously in his chair. “I think they’re buying a house together or some shit.”

“Aw,” Geoff replied, his face softening in sardonic dismay. “That must bum you out, Michael. No more Gavy-wavy sleepovers.”

Ryan flipped a page in his book, hiding the physical smile behind heavily faded paper. “I’ve heard Michael’s place has been hosting some interesting ‘sleepovers’ recently. Right, Ray?”

Geoff turned to glare at Ray, who in turn, glared at Ryan, who graciously accepted the butt-end of downhill annoyance with the same casual indifference he gave to everything. Geoff’s focus shifted to Michael, who only shrugged, boasting with another precarious tip of his chair and a smirk across his face. 

“Gross,” Geoff commented idly, but Ray could see the curiosity in his eyes, the steel-gray of questions that he’d very soon endeavor to find the answers to, and Ray was really getting tired of  _ that  _ bullshit. 

“We need to talk, Geoff,” he started, to which Geoff immediately nodded. 

“Agreed--”

“No,” Ray sighed, agitated. “Not about me and Michael fucking--” (Ryan coughed violently in surprise and Michael’s foot slipped from the table, teetering him dangerously as he snorted in laughter) “--but if you need to get that out of the way first before you’ll listen, have at it buddy.”

Geoff leveled him with an expression that would’ve scared him shitless, months ago, but now it only festered his annoyance. He didn’t know if it was the severity of the situation that weighed him down, or the surge of  _ relevance  _ he had started feeling within the crew, but those eggshells he’d been treading so carefully on beforehand were now all but crushed beneath his Converse. 

“No,” Geoff finally answered, and the fire seemed to tame in his eyes, like he’d been pacified, and that in itself threw Ray for a fucking loop. “Go ahead, Ray. What’s eatin’ ya?”

Ray shot a concerned glance at Michael, who gave him an encouraging, if not hesitant nod. They’d spoken about this earlier, about how much of the situation Michael wanted aired out and plastered to the walls as common knowledge. But the end justified the means, in this case, and Michael assured him that they all knew the basics of the story anyway, as family often does. 

“David met up with me last night,” Ray started calmly, and Geoff’s posture went from lethargic to rigid well before Ray could get the rest of his sentence out. 

“The fuck do you mean? Your brother?” He asked, but his question was directed at Michael, who shot an apologetic glance at Ray before answering. 

“Yeah. I had a tail when I went to Dempsey’s so I brought Ray along as backup. David got to him afterwards, in the parking garage.”

Geoff’s expression softened again. “I didn’t know you were fighting again,” he said, almost tenderly. “Thought you had worked through all that.”

Michael ran a hand across the back of his neck in discomfort, and Ray could sense Ryan’s eyes watching them from over his book as Michael spoke. “No, it’s not like that. It was a one-time deal, champion title. You know how it is.”

“And it went...fine?” Geoff asked, sliding his gaze over to Ray and back again, plainly asking several questions under the guise of one. 

_ Was everything fine? Was he enough backup? Why didn’t you tell us? Was he there for you? _

“Of course it went fine,” Ray interrupted, and was surprised at how cold and authoritative his voice sounded. How  _ aggressive  _ and posturing. “He had me there, didn’t he?”

Geoff, for his credit, knew when he was overreaching his boundaries, and put his hands up defensively. “Alright, I’m just making sure. You can’t fault an old man for worrying, can you?”

Michael scoffed, “Please, you’re anything but old, you fucking butcher,” he teased, but Ray didn’t miss the appreciative, almost prideful look Michael shot in his direction. 

“Alright. Ray, whatever happened is clearly bothering you. David’s a piece of shit, we’re all aware of that. Did he threaten you? Threaten  _ us _ ?”

Geoff was finally giving him the attention he’d been craving, a canvas to express all of his worries onto, but now that Ray was here, in the moment, the words felt so diminutive to how panicked he felt inside. It was  _ urgent  _ that he explain why this was eating at him, but there was no way for him to accurately express the sick feeling in his stomach.

“Yes. In a way. He wants to put you all on death row, screw the trial. He hinted at inside information, about your ‘disrespect’ biting you in the ass. He bribed me to be a mole.”

Geoff’s eyes flashed, and for a horrible, swooping moment, Ray would’ve sworn they were combatants again. But the moment was gone as soon as it came, and Geoff merely sighed. “Yeah, well, that sounds like David, doesn’t it? Dicky little bitch. No offense, Michael.”

“None taken,” Michael answered lightly, and Ray was so torn on trying to understand this dynamic. This tumultuous relationship between brothers and how long it had affected Michael’s crew, all of them wanting to rid Michael of his diseased limb, while still trying to respect his wishes that David live. How many fights had this caused? How many cold-sweat nights and drug-induced distractions had they all had to suffer?

"This isn’t bothering you?” Ray asked, half bewildered, half nonplussed. “The dude tried to offer me a way out of some impending shit-storm, and you don’t seem as fucking alarmed as I am.”

“Ray, I know you haven’t been here long enough to know David like we do, but he  _ does  _ this shit. You’re not the first person he’s tried to bribe into leaking out information--”

“Nope!” Ryan supplied cheerfully from the couch, and Michael rolled his eyes. 

“--And I know you’re… well, freaked, because this is all new, but he’s no more of a threat than those shitty hitmen he keeps sending.”

Ray could feel the disdain bubbling up inside of him. Geoff was  _ consoling  _ him, pandering to him like he were a child, and his worries were being scooped up, bottled, and tossed out the goddamn window. 

“You didn’t hear him,” Ray all but snarled, his hands reaching up to run through his hair in annoyance. “He was all over the fucking place, pulling questions out of his ass like he just wanted to hear me  _ speak.  _ Something wasn’t right with all of this, and I hear you, I  _ do:  _ he’s pulled shit like this before. But at some point, he’s got to learn that it isn’t fucking working, and try something new, right?”

“That’s true,” Michael supplied, finally helping Ray’s argument. “David  _ did  _ bug him, which is new.”

Geoff just hummed in curiosity, focused on Ray like his projection mattered way more than the words did, and Ray felt something inside of his snap. 

“Geoff -- for fuck’s sake -- I’m going to be straight with you, okay? Since I’ve got here, you’ve shoved it down my fucking throat that you don’t trust me. That none of it should have lined up the way it did, and you’re right, it fucking shouldn’t have. It’s  _ wild,  _ I agree. And if I agree, I guarantee you that people smarter than me have drawn that same conclusion. What’s to stop them from banking on it, huh? What’s to stop them from using that distrust and milking it until they can cause some real fucking damage?”

Ray couldn’t pinpoint exactly what he said that made Geoff’s eyes go cold, but he knew he’d made the wrong decision to lay out his insecurities on the table without a quantifiable amount of  _ proof  _ that it meant anything other than what it seemed. 

“First off,” Geoff started, pointing a tattooed finger in Ray’s direction, and the air between them was sucked from the baseboards at the very notion of Geoff’s malice. “You haven’t been around nearly long enough to mouth off to me like that. Secondly, I won’t have you coming into my fucking crew and questioning how deep my hands go in this fucking city. Whatever you think is happening, I’ve already considered it, re-considered it, ate it up, shit it out, and re-considered it again. I’ve owned half this shit-hole since I was twenty-six years old, and I’ve been bleeding for it since before you were  _ born _ , so the next time you want to accuse me of not knowing what’s going on in  _ my  _ fucking city, you should think about showing me some goddamn respect!”

“Geoff,” Michael tried, exasperated. “He’s freaked out, man. I am too, if I’m honest.”

“Good,” Geoff snapped. “Maybe you’ll finally get the guts to pull the trigger on your cunt of a brother. And if  _ this  _ shit freaks you out, Ray, then I hope you fucking learn from it. Having each other’s cocks in your mouths won’t save either one of you from being fucking stupid.” He glared at them both in turn, before chewing his lip in frustration. “I’m done talking about this. If you can bring me some solid fucking  _ proof  _ that David is a priority threat, then maybe we can talk, but until then, he remains nothing more than a nuisance.” 

He stood up and reached out blindly for Ryan’s half empty can of diet coke, snagging it. “When Jack gets back, we have heist details to run. Someone let me know when that happens, because I’m going to go home and take the world’s longest fucking nap. See you, boys.”

“Bye!” Ryan chirped cheerfully from the couch, as though his boss hadn’t just laid into two crew members who now sat quietly at the table, taken aback and unmotivated. A beat of silence passed as they listened to Geoff stomp down the staircase, cursing wildly into his phone, before Ryan sighed, reaching down to scratch between his dog’s ears. “You shouldn’t have sprung that on him right when he got back.”

Ray put his head in his hands, muffling his voice. “You’re right, man. Shouldn’t have  _ inconvenienced  _ him with urgent info right after his little va-cay. How inconsiderate.”

Ryan shrugged in response, unaffected by Ray’s dry sarcasm. “Hey, he worries. All you did is remind him how little control he has over what happens to you guys. Personally--”

“We  _ know,  _ Ryan,” Michael interrupted with a drawl. “You would’ve killed David years ago to avoid all of this. You would’ve killed the Vagos as well, if you had enough armament. Hell, you’d probably kill us just so you can finally finish your fucking book in peace, but goddamn Geoff and his  _ moral compass--” _

“I’d keep Gavin around, I think,” Ryan responded lightly. “And Meg. They’re a decent pair.”

“Bad news, Michael,” Ray huffed into the counter, his head still buried as he petulantly refused to give the situation more attention than it deserved. “Looks like we’re out of the running for cutest couple.”

“Give Geoff a few days,” Ryan coerced, bringing the conversation back onto topic. “Bring up your concerns, but without the damn sass. Also…” he paused, looking contemplative. “...and I hesitate to say this, but start looking at connections between your brother and Carlos. One combatant acting strangely is odd, but when two parties do it -- well, it’s usually not a coincidence. Enemy of my enemy, yadda yadda...”

Ray looked up to question what the  _ fuck  _ that could mean, but Michael was already nodding solemnly. “I hear you. Juan mentioned something similar to me the other day, but I didn’t want to hear it. I’ll have Gavvy see what he can dig up when he’s free.”

“Stay low for a few days, Michael,” Ryan warned, and there was an unusual concern in his voice, something that made the hairs on the back of Ray’s neck stand up. “Both of you need to keep out of sight for a bit until we figure all this shit out."   
  


 

///

 

 

Ray flipped through paperwork in the passenger seat, composed of detailed dossiers of Merryweather’s security heads. Michael was behind the wheel, as fluid in Ray’s Vacca as he was in any other vehicle, his fingers a light grip across the pull of the wheel. 

Ray’s head ached from a lack of sleep and his earlier rattle with Geoff, and he’d tuned in and out of the finer aspects of the man’s overview for their upcoming heist. He knew his position and he knew his job, but the  _ why  _ was still eluding him, especially when Geoff seemed to be avoiding his questions like a teacher would a class clown. 

“What’s this briefcase even worth?” He flipped another paper to peer at the profile of one ‘Warren Solarno’. “And why are these guys always bald? Did the genetic steroid enhancements to bulk them out also jumpstart premature hair loss?”

Michael chanced a look at him, his attention focused solely on maneuvering through the slower cars on the freeway. “You look like shit, man. You need to get some decent rest.” He flipped the air conditioners to blast towards the passenger seat. “And it’s worth whatever Gavin can get out of it, which is likely to be a lot, or we wouldn’t be planning this fucking thing. These over-the-counter company mergers are dangerous. Lots of high-value client information that has to be transferred, and no real security buffers behind it.”

“Why not just hack it? Why does he need the physical copy?”

“Physical  _ is  _ the only copy. Two big companies like this, they won’t trust their information over a server like that.”

Ray rubbed his temple, annoyed at his own body for finding a way to hinder him. He’d been doing so well. “Elysian is crawling with Merryweather guards though, and that warehouse is huge. Lots of time for things to go wrong.”

“True,” Michael shrugged. “Entering through Plaice will give us enough cover though, especially with Jeremy and Matt fucking shit up further down Abattoir. Gavin will shut down the cameras and hack into the safe, we’ll give him  _ more  _ than adequate cover, and that’s only  _ if  _ Merryweather even realizes we’re there. Geoff has this all planned out, so have some faith man. We still have three more days to plan for wildcards.”

“I'll have some faith when the man who's explaining company mergers to me isn't also the guy that yells at his fucking coffee maker every morning.”

“Yelling makes it work, and you know it.”

Ray smirked but didn’t argue. Home was only twenty minutes away, and he was exhausted.

 

 

///

 

 

Their plan was solid. Over the course of three days, they had set up four safe houses within a five mile radius in any direction, and configured exit strategies for every variation of shitstorm possible. Wildcards were considered, broken down, and prepared for, and all of them knew exactly what to do when something -- anything -- went wrong once they reached the warehouse. Contacts were memorized, code words were practiced, armament was readied, and they were in pristine condition to analyze and effectively combat any situation with Merryweather security.

Problem was, it all went to shit before they ever got there, and Merryweather security had fuck-all to do with it. 

Jack had accompanied them this time, his normal police surveillance all but useless against Merryweather’s personal security guards. It was unanimously decided that they’d need the extra gun far more than they’d need traffic reports. That was their first mistake. 

Their second came shortly after, when they all collectively side-eyed the roving SWAT helicopter that was making rounds on the outskirts of the shoreline, and shouldered on, despite the foreboding chopper trail that sliced through their confident atmosphere. 

“Lil J must be raising hell,” Michael reasoned, but it was muted and questionable. Geoff glanced at him from the passenger seat, his vest creasing into the rumpled material of his suit jacket, but said nothing. His eyes were hard and set in a way even Ray knew was rare, and whatever studious thoughts were plaguing his mind, Geoff kept them bottled, turning away from Michael to cast a furtive look over to the bayside.

“Maybe. Eyes out.”

Ray sat in back, his sight trained to the sky as he watched the black chopper bearing down upon the pier with a cool efficiency. Gavin, Jack, and Ryan were close behind them in Ryan’s matching armored Karuma, though Ray couldn’t see them through the tinted, bulletproof windows. Both cars slowed as they approached the off-ramp that would lead them down into the back roads of Elysian island, and Ray couldn’t help the pulse of fear that threatened to upturn his stomach. His pistol felt heavier than normal in the holster strapped to his thigh, and his rifle was warm from the firm press of his fingers, slippery from his nervous grip. Their plan was a repeat in the back of his mind, a constant track record of memorized movements and clear-cut instructions, but his eyes were still lost in the clouds as Michael made a steady, meditated turn past the rusty chain link fences, past the towering warehouses--

\--Only to jerk to a stop before the turn was complete.

“Oh fuck, Geoff--”

“--Michael, GO!”

The panic was immediate, and Ray felt the cold chill of terror slide down his spine at the sight awaiting them as they turned onto Plaice. Police vehicles were lining the road, an impenetrable blockade of steel and store-bought justice that offered cover to what looked like half of the police force, guns drawn as they sheltered behind open car doors and concrete road blocks. 

Ray’s breathing stopped. In that moment, time was infinite, and his eyes took in the shock on Geoff’s face, the urgency in his expression as he turned to grab Michael’s shoulder in desperation, the muted sound of a Captain commanding  _ “Open fire!” _ that accompanied the slam of Michael’s foot on the gas, his hands on the leather wheel as he made a hard left--

Then, windows were cracking as bullets embedded into the ballistic glass, creating a snowy web that snaked its way across Ray’s line of sight. Round after round was tearing into the armored plating of Michael’s Karuma, bearing down upon them like a heavy hail as Michael skidded through the turn, desperate to put the police at their back. The sounds were deafening, terrifying, shredding Ray’s fortitude into a white-hot panic of open nerves and flashing pinpoints of time. As Michael floored it, he held his breath for the moment Geoff’s frantic instructions would be silenced with a shift shot through the neck by the one lucky bullet that made it through the tempered glass. He waited for one to exit the back of Michael’s head, splattering the back windshield with blood and gore. He waited for the inevitable, clenching his rifle like the useless piece of junk it had become--

“Ray!” 

Michael’s words jump-started his system, his body acting on an autopilot that overwhelmed his shock, churning out the fight to overpower the flight. His hands still shook, and he braced himself, swallowing his fear and allowing the horror of the moment to engulf him long enough for him to accept it and work through it. He had a job to do, after all. 

The back passenger side window had taken a beating, and he gritted his teeth and used the butt of his rifle to knock out the tempered and broken sheet, running his barrel along the edge to hastily clear off any sharp fragments that remained in the pane. The police had already given chase as Michael pulled back onto Abattoir, tires skidding in agony but maintaining their traction thanks to a pricey coating Geoff had refused to skimp on. Without a second thought to his own safety, Ray aimed his barrel out of the window and started to lay down suppressing fire towards the swarm of cops that pulled out of the street behind them, sirens blaring.

As he chanced shoving his head far enough out of the window to get a decent shot on the drivers, he could briefly see Gavin and Ryan doing the same in the Karuma next to him. Gavin’s string of unintelligible curses as he sprayed the patrol cars down with his UMP were lost as Ryan’s maniacal laughter rose. The sound emboldened Ray in a way he wasn’t expecting,  a swift reminder that he wasn’t alone in this chaos, that he didn’t have to let the fear rule him. This moment would consume him in one way or another, but only  _ he  _ could decide what he did with that out-of-body experience. As the frailty of the moment allowed him a quick breath, long enough to embrace the madness, Ryan’s unexpected and cheerful whoop strengthened him, and it took only an instant for him to realize that this crew would never let him down again, and if he were to die, he wouldn’t die alone.

He tried to focus as best he could, combated by Michael’s serpentine driving and the sway of his rifle. The first two shots were lost among the sirens, the spark of fried electronics mocking his bad aim. He grit his teeth, willing his body to relax despite the gut-clenching sound of bullets peppering the back windshield. His third shot finally made contact straight through the jaw of one of the SWAT drivers, which immediately sent the SUV veering wildly into two patrol cars, rendering them out of commission. 

Ryan cheered loudly over the sound of crunching metal and skidding tires, and Ray felt another gush of pride and confidence that was slowly replacing the fear. Gavin managed to land a trail of .45’s through the windshield of a fourth patrol car, and the window shattered, spraying the interior of the vehicle with a red mist of blood. 

“Bloody  _ hell!”  _ Gavin yelled, his voice distant and distorted. “Ryan, did you--”

Gavin cut off, and Ray ducked wildly as a bullet hit the edge of the door, much too close to his body, and looked around towards Gavin, worried that he’d been shot. But Gavin was already slipping back inside the vehicle, and one look at Ryan quickly explained why he’d stopped mid-sentence and retreated. 

“Come get me, you fucking pigs!” Was the last thing Ryan shouted before he pulled the RPG out with him, his aim steady and his grin feral. 

“Shit--”

Ray ducked back into the car just in time to hear the unmistakable click and hiss of the rocket as Ryan let it loose. A split second later, and the contact was undeniable. Sirens bellowed and died, overwhelmed by the sound of fire engulfing the engine, quickly spreading out like a pulse wave of oblivion. The crunch of carnage was deafening as pieces of metal scrapped across the road and twisted themselves into the rusted chain-link fences. Cars careened into one another, and those that hadn’t been subjected to the immediate blast were quickly taken down by the crushed metal of the vehicles before them. 

Michael was cackling, making a hard left to turn down towards the slums, and Geoff’s appreciate whoop of delight went almost unheard in the screech of tires and lingering explosions. 

“Jesus  _ fuck.” _

Ray’s heart was hammering, but he couldn’t help the delirious smile that spread across his lips. Adrenaline was fueling him completely, turning his head into a mischievous mess of havoc and cool elitism. 

“Ray, take out any stragglers. We’ve got to lose the choppers before they get a clear view.”

“Right.”

Cautiously, he popped his head back out of the window, but only two SWAT cars were still in pursuit, their heavily armored vehicles having withstood the battering far better than the police units. The passengers were hanging out the side windows, taking pop shots at both their cars, but they were frightened, nerves combatting their aim. Ray took down one of the drivers easily and watched with a sick satisfaction as the truck slowly started to turn until the dead driver slid off of the wheel completely, and the high speed combined with the sharp turn flipped the truck easily onto its side. The second car slowed after that, knowing the fight was lost, and Ray grinned and waved goodbye as Michael sped past the freeway exits towards the underpass on the far side of town, a path that easily avoided most of the patrol routes and general population. 

Ray pulled himself back inside, picking some of the glass out of his jacket sleeves, only to find that the sudden calm had mellowed Geoff’s good mood. He had his head thrown back onto the seat, and his fingers were gripping his own rifle  _ hard.  _

“What the  _ fuck.” _

Michael grimaced. “I don’t know, Geoff--”

“What the  _ FUCK.” _

“How the fuck did they know we were coming?” Michael asked softly, concern lacing the edges of his tone. 

“....Fuck. I don’t know, just... just get us to the underpass. We’ll need to wait it out for a few hours before we can chance going back to base without a tail.”

Silence fell after that, with the only spoken words were coming quietly from Ray, who periodically updated Michael on the location of the chopper. Meeting up at the underpass thirty minutes later didn’t lighten Geoff’s mood, and they piled out of their busted Karumas carefully, a toxic cocktail of annoyance, confusion, and apprehension as their boss glared pinpricks of heat into the bridge above them. 

Gavin was nursing a shallow cut in his arm from where he’d sliced it against the glass, and Ryan had a mysterious smear of blood on his cheek, though he seemed entirely unfazed by it as he sat atop the hood of his car. Jack was watching Geoff carefully, eyes flitting between the boss and their point of access, doubly alert. Michael had propped himself up against the tire of his still-heated vehicle, a sweaty hand combing through his hair as adrenaline faded into poignant frustration. Ray stood quietly, upending a rock with his foot, waiting for the inevitable storm that was brewing between the six of them. 

Geoff rubbed his eyes furiously, looking at all of them in turn. 

“Where’s the fucking leak, huh? Which one of you fucking idiots wasn’t careful?”

No one spoke, but Ray was quick to notice that every single member met Geoff’s eyes when it became paramount that they do so. There was no hesitation, no declaration of guilt, and no immediate explanation for the embarrassing calamity that just ensued.   

“Christ, Geoff, we got out didn’t we? Made a solid impression I’d say.”

Gavin seemed heedless to the tension, as usual, and Geoff sighed impatiently before fixing the nonchalant Gavin in his sights. 

“We did make a solid impression, didn’t we? We lovingly displayed for the LSPD just how fucking  _ inept  _ we are! There’s a reason they’ve slapped the Immortals nickname onto us, and there’s a  _ reason  _ that we’re above most cops fucking paygrade, guys. What we displayed out there was  _ weakness _ , and I want to know how half the fucking police department felt confident enough in their tip that they decided to try and mow us the fuck down!”

“I dunno, Geoff,” Ryan countered mildly. “If anything, we showed them that our crew can still execute flawlessly despite a disadvantage.” 

“Oh, is that what you call flawless?” Geoff questioned incredulously, gesturing towards the faint traces of black smoke that still lingered over the bay in the distance. “As usual, buddy, I don’t think you quite grasp the magnitude of what just happened.”

“Oh, I grasp it,” Ryan disagreed politely. “I’m just saying… we didn’t get our reputation by claiming to be deities. If anything, it’s far more terrifying to know that your enemies can bleed.” 

Ray bowed his head in agreement, but said nothing. He was already a beacon for Geoff’s distrust, and he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t feel sick with foreboding that this would somehow fall upon him to shoulder. He was already frantically picking his brain apart, trying to figure out where he could have gone wrong, trying to convince himself that he  _ wasn’t  _ somehow to blame.

“Regardless,” Geoff snapped, trying to regain the ferocity that Gavin and Ryan had siphoned from him. “Someone, somehow, leaked this information. I know it wasn’t Lil J, because he had no fucking idea what we were doing, or how we were doing it. So it came from  _ this circle,  _ whether you assholes knew about it or not.”

Silence fell over them again, and Geoff seemed to lose the final bits of fight he had left in him. “Fine. Awesome. That’s just a potential take in the tens of millions down the fucking drain, but whatever, right? At least we all  _ learned  _ something.” He sat down on the ground opposite of Michael, with his back pressed against the graffitied wall of the underpass. “We camp here for two hours, at least, then head back. We’ll figure out what to do from there.”

They waited in silence, and Ray avoided any and all contact, too afraid that there would be no one willing to meet his eyes.


	19. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time updating Ennui ever! It's bittersweet for me, because as much as I've enjoyed creating this story, I certainly didn't have the time to dedicate to getting it written and posted in a decent manner. Definitely a lesson learned as far as chapter pieces go. 
> 
> Thank you guys so, SO much for sticking this out and coming back for the updates. I can't tell you how much I've appreciated the comments, and how they've been the only things encouraging me to keep going when I was drained out. I'm still writing, but I'll be putting things out as one-shots rather than chapters, so no one will have to deal with my sporadic updating again (dark gtav raychael, as well as mavin smut, because I'm trash). Seriously, I love you guys so much, and thank you for taking this two-year journey with me! <3
> 
> Shout out to Paintlopedia, for taking pity on me and beta-ing my dumb mistakes. I'd be FAR less confident posting these last few parts if not for her, so a million thanks for her help!

They hadn’t even had time to take off their gear before Geoff’s phone chirped itself awake, echoing serenely in their padded and welcoming heist room. 

“Geoff? Jack questioned, nodding his head towards the desk where Geoff had unceremoniously tossed the few belongings he had on him. Geoff waved him off to stretch out his tense arms, but Jack flashed a look at the screen regardless, his eyes narrowing at whatever he saw. “It’s an email. Unknown sender.”

Geoff stopped, hesitating in his tracks with just the barest hint of interest, and Jack took the motion as full permission to grab the phone and unlock the screen. 

“Subject line: Ramsey’s rat.”

Geoff snarled quietly and grabbed the phone from Jack’s hand, nearly tripping over the carpet in his haste. Ray’s heart shot to his throat, and something immediately felt  _ wrong  _ in his gut. He tried to catch Michael’s gaze from across the room, desperate to convey the urgency that was suddenly filtering through his body, bypassing his reasoning, but Michael was watching Geoff with a thinly veiled interest, completely absorbed in the moment. 

“It’s an audio file,” Geoff muttered, and the instant he opened the attachment, Ray’s blood turned to ice, and his world collapsed around him. 

_ “I know you’re too deep in right now to leave, I get it. But the Fakes have pissed off the wrong people for too long, and I hate to break it to you, but these local gangs, they’ve been embedded here for generations, and they don’t think Ramsey’s disrespect for their legacy is as cute as you pricks think it is. Shit’s about to go down, and I’m trying to offer you a way out.” _

Geoff’s eyes blazed. “The fuck is this?”

“That’s David,” Michael responded darkly, nothing but a mouthful of questions that tilted his words into a gnarled web of distrust and furious unease. He flashed his gaze over in Ray’s direction just as Ray’s insides turned to liquid horror the moment his own voice was parroted back through Geoff’s phone speakers. 

_ “Why the fuck would you care about what happens to me?” _

The whole crew turned towards Ray, the wave of movement happening so seamlessly that the crew seemed programmed with the inherent ability to function as a unit. And while their expressions were unreadable, their stances had stiffened, poised and alert, swallowing the influx of information and working through it in their own individual way, coming to their own personal conclusions. Ray’s insides were churning in terror, and he knew exactly what was coming next.

_ “Because Michael is  _ not  _ what you think he is, and neither is Geoff. Michael will get whatever short-lived satisfaction out of you that he wants, and you’ll realize pretty fucking quickly that he played you. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it once you’re gone. The kid killed his own mother, his father, teenagers, cops, loads of innocents, and you want to pretend he’s got an ounce of compassion left for you? I’m trying to help you avoid a bloodbath here, because I don’t want to see someone with your talent go the same way as so many others.” _

Michael cursed under his breath, turning to stare at the wall as if to avoid the shame of his brother’s words, however untrue they were. Before Ray could focus on Michael and whatever inner torment he was working through, Geoff tore his attention back with a sharp, icy question. 

“Narvaez, what is this?” Geoff snapped, and Ray was heartbroken to hear how quickly he had reverted back to the cold indifference he had been displaying for so many months previously. 

“This is exactly what I told you about,” Ray started frantically, gesturing at the phone as it maliciously blared half-truths through its speakers. “In the parking garage--”

_ “I don’t want to hear your fucking sob story about your dead parents, or your misguided blame.” _

_ “Fine,”  _ David cut through, and Ray felt an awkward lurch in his gut at the change of tone. This conversation wasn’t how he remembered it, and it was disjointed, skewed. Fabricated.  _ “I’m not here to waste my time -- I need a mole. I just need to know where they’ll be, so I can head them off with the whole fucking LSPD at my side, and within a year they’ll all be convicted and sent to death row. There will be no bail, none of their affiliated defense attorneys, none of their usual bullshit -- they will have nothing. They will never find you, and you’ll be in fucking…. Tahiti, I don’t know, before they even realize what’s wrong.”  _ There was a pause before David’s voice cut through again, but it sounded airy and light, a slight contrast to the concrete echos that had been filtering through the phone.  _ “I know you betrayed the Vagos because the Fakes were a better opportunity. All I’m asking is that you do it again, before the Vagos take Ramsey down, and consider my proposal to solve both of our problems.”  _

“This isn’t--” Ray choked on his words as he was met with Geoff’s immediate fiery rage, a reaction to his complete and utter validation of Ray’s suspected ulterior motives. Coupled with Jack’s disappointed frown from behind Geoff, their instant distrust cut through Ray like a fucking knife. This was  _ wrong.  _ Everything was fucking  _ wrong. _ “This isn’t how this happened. He never said that. This isn’t--”

_ “...approaching me was a smart move--” _

Ray blanched as his voice filled the silence in the room. Even Michael looked alarmed, shifting his eyes from the phone to Ray, as if trying to distinguish the disconnect between them. 

“And that?” Geoff snarled. “Is that also  _ not  _ what happened? Because that sure as fuck sounds like your voice, doesn’t it?

“Geoff, I can explain  _ all  _ of this, I  _ swear  _ to you--” Ray had put his hands up in defense, but didn’t remember doing so. The walls of the room were closing in around him, and the pulse in his throat felt ready to rip through his skin to make itself known. He couldn’t take the skepticism on Michael’s face, the dismal curiosity that troubled Gavin’s expression, Jack’s fierce disappointment, how Ryan’s frown formed a bracket on the edges of his mouth, tense and poised, waiting for the word from Geoff, who was staring at Ray as if seeing him for the first time, all over again. 

_ “Ten million dollars,”  _ David continued, and Ray could  _ feel  _ the metaphorical wounds being torn into him as everything was twisted, a mockery of the conversation they’d had.  _ “And a private plane out of San Andreas to anywhere you want to go. No paper trail, no connections.”  _ Another odd jolt, a displacement in time, before,  _ “Now tell me -- does Ramsey trust you enough to give you the information I need? Does Michael?” _

The memory of their conversation was ripping Ray apart from the inside, and he was trembling, vividly recalling David asking the question  _ Does he love you?  _ just as Ray’s sincere, slightly subdued voice answered--

_ “He does.” _

Ray forced his eyes shut to avoid the influx of disbelief that was enveloping the crew around him. He wouldn’t ever be able to explain this. David had fucking played him, had taken their conversation and altered it to prey on Geoff’s worries, to dig into those suspicions and turn them into tangible, grounded things. Whatever lines he hadn’t been able to drag from Ray, the ones that didn’t slot into his narrative, he’d recorded them elsewhere and sliced them together into something that was tilting Ray’s world until he bordered on the precipice, primed to fall.

_ “Great. In exchange for the information you’ll provide me that will lead to the arrest of the Fakes, I will personally guarantee your payment, as well as immediate transportation out of the country. Do you understand the terms of our agreement?” _

_ “I do.” _

The audio clicked off, leaving the room in a cloud of tension as Ray shrank in on himself, lost, racking his brain to figure out how the fuck he was supposed to explain himself. Before anyone could speak, the attachment clicked back to life, signaling the start of another exchange, and Ray’s stomach bottomed out further when he heard the steady roar of his own Vacca, mere background noise to the sound of himself flipping through paperwork. 

_ “Elysian is crawling with Merryweather guards though, and that warehouse is huge. Lots of time for things to go wrong.” _

Michael cocked his head to stare Ray down so quickly Ray was sure his neck would snap. There was a brief flash of terror that mirrored Ray’s own sick, clenched feeling, but it was sated through years of camaraderie with the crew that Ray didn’t yet have. Michael would never be on the firing line. He would  _ never  _ be suspect. 

_ “True,”  _ Michael’s voice carried through the audio, sounding soft and vulnerable in all the ways Ray had been greedily stockpiling for himself, and it  _ hurt  _ to know that moment was being taken from them, twisted into the suggestions of betrayal _. “Entering through Plaice will give us enough cover though, especially with Jeremy and Matt fucking shit up further down Abattoir. Gavin will shut down the cameras and hack into the safe, we’ll give him more than adequate cover, and that’s only if Merryweather even realizes we’re there. Geoff has this all planned out, so have some faith man. We still have three more days to plan for wildcards.” _

The audio cut off completely, and the recording ended. Ray tried to steady his gaze on Michael’s expression, the worry that creased the edges of his eyes, the distrust that was being held back only by the memories Ray  _ knew  _ were coursing through Michael’s thoughts. He couldn’t avoid the bleak desperation in his voice as he spoke, letting his words ripple through the air, unsure how much they could affect anymore.

“Michael… he bugged the car. Please. That night in the lot, he reached in through the window to grab my sleeve, he must have planted one in the car and one on me, remember? Please.” His voice cut off with a choke. “You know me. You know that this isn’t--”

“‘Yes I do’, you said,” Geoff interrupted, well before Michael had even opened his mouth to answer, and Ray was torn from the moment to watch the boss take a few menacing steps closer. “If this  _ was  _ staged, how can you possibly explain speaking to him as fucking calmly as you did in that moment? In my understanding, all of us  _ hate  _ that fuck weasel, and it’s only out of respect to Michael that he continues to draw breath. What on god’s green earth did he ask to get that kind of fucking response from you?”

Ray hesitated, the ludicrously of the situation overwhelming his cognizance, his ability to interact with the world around him. The drive to explain how awkward the exchange with David had been was uncontrollable, compelling him to blurt out excuses the moment he could remember the muscles it took to move his mouth. 

“Geoff -- I  _ told  _ you. I told you the whole fucking exchange was weird as shit. I--”

“Tell me what he asked you Narvaez, right fucking now, or I will shoot you down in front of this entire fucking crew!”

Geoff spoke, and lightning seized the air around them. Michael jerked and Ray winced, fully believing the man before him, and panic shifted his guts as he answered as quickly as possible. 

“He asked me if Michael loved me, fuck, okay?” 

There was a strange wave that passed in the room, a tremor of the undefinable at the use of a word that was as foreign as it was steadfast. It was an unvoiced feeling among family that both threatened to upend their crew, yet wholly defined them. The word was rare and treasured, yet unguarded in the way they melded together, sharing dreams and calamities, bound to each other by something stronger than convenience. There was nothing but love within their crew, despite Ryan and Michael’s fights, despite Gavin’s constant endangerment of their mission, and despite Jack’s tepid nature that combated with Geoff’s heavy-handed approach. 

Ray was praying that the word would save him. 

“I told him, ‘he does,’ like it says on that fucking tape. He reached in through the window and grabbed my shirt, and I thought… fuck, I thought maybe he cared about Michael, that maybe I could fix this situation, stop all these fucking hitmen and this stupid feud, and he asked me if I felt the same way, and I was honest. I was just…” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I was fucking honest.” 

He ran his hands across his face and tangled them in his hair, burdened, terrified, and feeling more foolish than he ever had in his entire life. He was stupid to believe he could manage this life. He wasn’t smart enough for this shit. There was too much humanity left in him, too much of a willingness to  _ try,  _ to  _ help _ , and the exact thing that Michael had warned him about so many months ago was finally coming to fruition, and he’d fucking  _ invited  _ it in like a long lost friend. 

_ You’re the nice guy. You’re the stupid fucking idiot that takes a criminal back to his base of operations even after the dick pointed a gun at you and stole every goddamn cent you had. You’re the guy that trusts somebody because they’ve never given you a reason not to. You’re the guy everyone wishes they hadn’t lost. Los Santos decimates guys like you. Don’t be that guy, Ray. After all the fucking trouble I went through to keep you alive, don’t thank me by victimizing worthless scum and getting shot in the fucking back. _

Jack cleared his throat, interrupting the mollifying alteration of atmosphere that had changed in Ray’s admission. “And this… ‘approaching me was a smart move’ crap you said, can you explain that?”

Ray met Jack’s eyes, only to wish he hadn’t. Distrust was woven through Jack’s expression, masked only by the sorrow that hurt more than Ray ever realized it would. Jack had been Geoff’s right hand man for decades, and no matter how much Jack cared for Ray, him and Geoff had not gotten to where they were without keeping a crosshair on every man and woman they affiliated with in San Andreas, just as a precaution. Ray could appeal to Jack’s tender side, but without solid, concrete proof of his innocence, it would be a wasted effort. 

“I don’t… I don’t remember exactly,” Ray responded honestly, but instantly wished he hadn’t with the way Geoff’s eyes flashed. “Look, wait! He took my words and fucked with them, right? I just, I don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this up even more.”

“Man, there is literally no worse position you could be in right now,” Ryan drawled, and Ray’s heart fell even more as he saw the Vagabond fingering the KA-BAR strapped to his side. They were back to where they started. Months of sharing tactics, of learning together, of having one another’s backs and eating take-out while canvasing a hot spot, it was all gone. It was all fucking  _ gone.  _

“It was when I first realized who he was,” Ray breathed out heavily, his voice still wavering on the edges of panic. “I asked him why he thought approaching me was a smart move, and why I shouldn’t shoot him, then and there.”

Michael’s eyes flashed hopefully, and despite Ray’s initial worries, he knew Michael  _ believed  _ him, and that was almost enough in itself to calm the aching tension in his nerves. Whatever happened, as long as Michael knew the truth of his dedication, his greatest fear was sated. 

“Geoff,” Michael started softly, unusually sincere. “He brought all of this up to you. Word for word.”

“I know,” Geoff responded darkly. “Which, depending on the context of  _ why  _ he told me, either makes him very, very smart, or incredibly stupid.”

“Something  _ did  _ seem janky with the tape, Geoffrey,” Gavin supplied, speaking out for the first time as he studied Ray closely. “The ambiance in parts didn’t sound the same, like it had been bungled with.”

Geoff put a hand to his face to rub irritably at the stubble of his beard, obviously bothered by Gavin and Michael’s contrite appeals. “Okay, but do you say this as a member of my crew, or as his friend? Because you can’t be mixing that shit up right now, Gav.”

The challenge was written plainly on Geoff’s face, the righteous authority that dared anyone to second guess his jurisdiction of the room, made all the more personal with Gavin’s affectionate nickname affixed at the end. Gavin, however, met the dispute between them with a graceful confidence, and held his head high as he answered. 

“I say it as both. Ray has been nothing but an honest bloke since he got here, even when it bollocksed it up for himself. He’s the kind of guy that would give David the chance to screw him over, isn’t he?”

Geoff growled irritably, clearly torn between two drastically different emotions. Vulnerability was not his strong suit, and hearing Gavin, his protege -- his metaphorical  _ son  _ \-- speak out so clearly against the crew regulations that had kept them safe for so long was both subduing his anger to manageable levels while somehow still prolonging it. 

Finally, he turned his attention towards Ray, who was still rooted to the spot, velcroed to the carpet with his rifle still slung over his back like the symbolic weighty icon of every good and bad decision he had ever made to land him in this position. 

“Prove to me this isn’t true,” Geoff demanded lowly, his steel-fire gaze embering with the magnitude of his command. “Prove to me that you didn’t defer from the Vagos, that you didn’t double cross them as soon as you decided Michael was worth the risk, that the  _ haul  _ you could get from us was worth the risk. Prove to me that you didn’t sell us out to the highest bidder.”

Ray swallowed, and he could hear Michael’s past words in the back of his head, etched into his skull like the brand of all the things he should have been paying more attention to. 

_ He thinks that the Vagos put you here in the first place. That this was some stupid set up to get a guy on the inside. He’s so fucking strung out on the belief that Carlos is going to turn on us that’s he’s just looking for shit that isn’t there. _

He remembers his own concern, the disbelief.  _ If Carlos had put me here, why would he be offering a mill to get me back out? Unless it’s some kind of ploy, to sidetrack suspicion? _

_ That’s one theory. Geoff’s current running scenario is that you’ve changed your mind. You didn’t realize you’d be offered into recruitment, and you’ve decided to stay and double-cross. He keeps insisting that you’ve found something here you didn’t expect to, whatever the fuck that means, and you’re trying to stick around. _

Ray lowered his head and grit his teeth, cornered by his own fucking stupidity, by his own naive disbelief that he could be handed an antidote for his misery, a whirlwind life on a silver platter, without having to pay the bill. He hadn’t grown into this world like the rest of them, hadn’t had to learn the exquisite taste of betrayal from a young age, hadn’t been versed in the lexicon of treachery that had moulded the men before him; he hadn’t had to suffer through a life of mistakes to obtain an immunity to the deception of the world around him. 

Every moment he’d shared with this crew was being turned against him, and he had no explanation for David’s tape outside of sheer, irresponsible naivety. 

“Prove to me you’re not on their side, Narvaez.”

And Ray, back to fearing for his life at the hands of the criminal elite, averted his eyes to the only thing that currently mattered to him anymore. He took in the brown of Michael’s eyes, the softness behind the hardened unease, and the promise woven into his expression. He thought of Michael’s heavy request, honest words spoken in a haze of affinity:  _ Stay with me, whatever happens,  _ and closed his eyes before they could give away the debilitating influx of emotion to the men around him. 

“I can’t.”

Geoff breathed out slowly and moved back, watching the nuances of Ray’s face like a predator watches his prey, before locking eyes with Ryan. Ryan cocked his head curiously, as if processing the legitimacy of a request, and Michael moved forward in a rage, determined to fight for his place in whatever was about to happen--

But before any of them could open their mouths to sling words at one another, Geoff’s computer started emitting a horrible, piercing alarm, a sound that used to terrify Ray in the movies when he was a child. The sound of something gone very, very wrong. 

“Fuck,” Jack cursed, pushing Geoff’s office chair to the side as he placed himself in front of the monitors, his eyes glancing furtively over every screen as he harshly tapped a few keys to shut off the blaring alarm. 

“What? What is it?” Geoff pulled his pistol from the holster, shoving a few ammo cans out of the way with his foot so he could peer frantically over Jack’s shoulder. 

“Vagos,” Jack breathed angrily, “Coming in from the east side.”

With their conversation reduced to lower levels and the high-pitched whine of the alarm now shut off, Ray could hear the distinct scraping of rapid footsteps and car doors being slammed on the ground three stories below them. 

Ryan moved to plaster himself against the wall, double checking his mag before leaning carefully towards the window. “I’ve got eyes on. At least two dozen, and Carlos is heading it.”

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Geoff cursed. “Security cameras have them piling around back. They’re going to hit the exit door on the third floor. It’s the least secure.”

“That door is still coded,” Michael stated matter-of-factly, following Ryan’s lead and pulling his pistol from the hem of his pants as he peered cautiously towards the east window. “You’d need at least three feet of det cord--”

“They’re lining the door,” Jack interrupted, and Michael cursed under his breath. 

Geoff checked the fit on his vest and let out a heavy exhale. “Alright, boys. We knew this would happen eventually. Jack, monitor the camera feeds and guide me through the warehouse. I don’t want any surprises when I turn a corner. Gavin -- no, put your fucking weapon down,  _ hell  _ no -- I want you on the phone and calling in every fucking favor anyone has ever owed us. Pull something glorious out of your ass.”

Gavin glared at Geoff but followed orders, reluctantly handing his UMP over into Geoff’s waiting hands. “Fine, but it’ll be a minute, won’t it? You’ll need backup.”

Geoff slid a fresh mag into the UMP and snapped it into place with a grin. “I’ve got three healthy, blood-thirsty boys right here, buddy, I’m golden. Ryan, you’re with me on the East side; Michael, you and your BFF head down the West corridor and make sure they don’t get through the armory. If they break through that, we’re fucked sideways.”

Ray, bewildered, pulled his SCAR from over his shoulder and unfolded the buttstock. “So you’re  _ not  _ rearranging my face anytime soon?”

Geoff re-inserted his earpiece while Jack followed suit, giving Geoff a quick thumbs up to signify connection. Geoff sighed irritably. “Narvaez, I don’t know what the fuck to believe, if I’m honest. You’re the last person I trust right now, but if I split you and Michael up, neither one of you will be combat effective, so my only option is to place my trust in Michael, and hope he doesn’t let me down.”

“Hey, I’ve got a decent track record of not getting myself into shit,” Michael said, allowing himself a wicked smile as he picked up his SPAS from where he had propped it up against the wall. 

Geoff looked at Michael with the most exasperated expression Ray had ever seen; a strange mixture of fond appreciation and deep concern. “No, you have a decent track record of getting yourself  _ out  _ of the shit you get yourself into. A notable goddamn difference.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a muffled explosion that shook the very ground beneath them, courtesy of the solid concrete building. The foundation quaked under Ray’s feet ominously, teetering him off balance, and he reached out to the wall for support as Geoff began shouting. 

“Stay safe, boys!”

And he was gone, Ryan hot on his heels with his rifle loaded and ready. Michael gave Gavin and Jack a final nod before ushering Ray out of the office door, turning them down the stairwell and past the hallway exit Geoff and Ryan had left open in their wake. Bullets were already pinging against the metal of the doors at the end of the hall, echoing down the stairwell that led their descent, and Ray’s nerves were flaring back to life. 

“Oh no,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time, hot on Michael’s heels as they heard Geoff yelling profanities two floors above them. “Ooh no. That ten million and private plane is starting to sound pretty good, to be honest.”

“Dude,” Michael huffed, nudging open the hallway door that would lead them to the armory with his shoulder. “Too soon.”

“Too soon?!” Ray responded incredulously. “It’s  _ my  _ head on the chopping block here, I’ll decide if a joke’s too fucking dark or not.”

“Ray, shut the fuck up and watch the stairwell. My phone’s ringing.”

“Now?” Ray hissed, backing them into the hallway while he leveled his rifle to the entry. He watched Michael shoulder his shotgun and struggle to get his phone out of his pants. “Maybe one of those ‘send it to voicemail’ times, yeah?”

“It’s David.”

Ray quieted as Michael stared at the phone in his open palms, looking half-afraid it was rigged to blow. Gunfire was peppering the hallway upstairs, and they could hear both Geoff and Ryan’s echos alongside the ear-splitting shots. Geoff sounded far more angry than frantic, and Ray was able to catch the faint yell of “My wife  _ carved  _ that totem you fucking inept pile of cock-sucking GARBAGE!” which was followed by Ryan’s slightly maniacal laughter. 

“Dude, just answer it,” Ray pressed cautiously, trying to hide the apprehension that so easily mirrored Michael’s. “He can’t pull any more shit over the phone, and it might be important.”

“I fucking hate this guy,” Michael cursed, curling his fingers around the vibrating piece of plastic and glass. “Man, I’m so fucking sorry. If I had just taken care of this, he wouldn’t have been able to--”

“ _ Michael!”  _ Ray snapped, gesturing wildly to the phone while trying to maintain a careful watch of the stairway. He was fully ready to accept Michael’s admission of guilt and hindsight, but his main concern was still the twenty guys pouring in through the third floor of the warehouse, looking for blood. There was a time and a place, and this  _ wasn’t  _ it.

“Fine,” Michael acquiesced, moving up next to Ray to hug the wall as he drug the slider on his phone over to ‘accept’. Ray kept his rifle level, ready to lay down any necessary cover fire while Michael held the phone to his ear. “What, David?”

“Michael?”

Michael’s face contorted in immediate discomfort at the sound of his name, trying to mask the reaction by peering out past Ray to double check the stairwell. They were close enough that Ray could easily hear David’s tone, and he felt a swift bout of barely-restrained rage pass through him at the sound, knowing that the man who had tried to tear apart his life was comfortable and smug in an office chair somewhere, waiting for his plan to come to fruition.

“Yeah, obviously,” Michael spit back. “The fuck do you want? I’m slightly occupied, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Yeah. I hope there’s no hard feelings about that,” David drolled. 

“David, just tell me why you’re calling so we can get this the fuck over with.”

A heavy pause, before a surprisingly mellow response. 

“I wanted to say goodbye, brother.”

Ray chanced a look at Michael’s face, watched the flicker-fail of emotional turmoil pass through Michael as he was wounded, ripped into yet  _ again  _ by David’s fierce detachment. Michael worked through it as he’d always done, with a sharp scoff that allowed him to stitch himself up and let the moment pass, surrendered and forgotten. “No, you want to gloat. There’s a difference. If that’s all you have to say, then I’m hanging up.”

“Michael, listen,” David responded, clearly unimpressed with Michael’s reaction if the condescension dripping from his tone was any clue. “I know it’s hard for you to understand anything that doesn’t have a target attached to it, but you and your crew are a means to an end. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I would have preferred the cops take you out and avoid this...unpleasantness with the Vagos, but hey, the enemy of my enemy of my friend, yadda yadda...”

Their attention was swiftly stolen by several cries of pain upstairs, but they were unfamiliar, and Ray was sure he could still hear Geoff’s litany of echoed curses alongside Ryan’s goading candor. Michael had abandoned his attention from the phone, looking about two seconds away from flying up that staircase to help his crew, but Ray nudged him none too gently, mouthing  _ get info!  _ once Michael had refocused on him. Michael glowered for a moment, irritated by both David’s distraction and Ray’s reluctance to let the source go, but the drive for dirt was too good of an opportunity to pass up, and they both knew it. 

David was under the impression they’d soon be dead. If there was any time to get him to admit his guilt in all of this, it was  _ now.  _

“What the fuck is your plan?” Michael snarled into the phone, attention still half torn between the conversation at his ear and the firefight above them. “What the fuck do you possibly get out of all of this?”

David scoffed at him over the line. “Elections are coming up, you fucking idiot. I get to bank off the sob story of my dead brother, who was a ‘sad, misunderstood boy, mixed up in all this nasty drug business’, and the sympathy support is almost guaranteed to win me the mayor's seat.” 

“And the Vagos?” Michael pressed, and Ray could have kissed him for how easily he got David to play into his hand with that fabricated snarl of elitism. “What do they get from this alliance? They wouldn’t be here, risking their best men without getting the better end of the bargain.”

David sighed, as if the reminder of his Vago association was something that tainted his otherwise pristine persona. “They’re funding my anti-drug campaign, simply put. In return for the money they invest, I’ve guaranteed them a monopoly of the narco trafficking in San Andreas, including control of all the ports, and I’ve sworn to send the LSPD on raids for every competitor once I’m elected. They give me a cut of the profits, and I pay off the remaining honest officers to keep any and every Vago from seeing the inside of a prison cell.”

“So Vagos get immunity, you make bank, and I’ll be dead. That’s the master plan?” Michael was chewing the inside of his lip as he spoke, and for a brief moment, Ray couldn’t distinguish the counterfeit damage to his ego from the residual pain that still lingered in Michael’s fucked up psyche. 

“My god, he’s got it!” David laughed sarcastically. “Knew we’d get there. Sorry about having to turn your crew against your chew toy, by the way. But you killed so many of my best men, I figured it was only fair.”

Ray twitched in anger but remained silent. This wasn’t his argument, and it wasn’t his place. He turned his focus to the upper levels, still waiting for a group to break past Geoff’s defenses and come barreling down in search of their targets, greedy to take credit for the kill and have their first pick of the arsenal that waited patiently in the armory. 

Michael had tensed next to him, and Ray knew that whatever willingness Michael had to maintain a peaceful arrangement was  _ gone,  _ bled dry from him after years of minuscule cuts, climaxing the moment he tried to turn Ray into a personal puppet. 

“David, I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Michael began lowly, and Ray could feel the moment the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck started to stand. Michael’s tone was radiating danger, that same indescribable dominance that had filled the bathroom in Ray’s old apartment. The same one that found Ray so entwined with the man he now loved, and the one that had given Michael a ruthless notoriety through the Los Santos underground. “I am  _ not  _ going to die today, my  _ crew  _ isn’t going to die today, and all of us, Ray included, are going to find you, we’re going to hurt you, David, and you’re going to get on your hands and knees and beg an apology from each of us in turn like the fucking animal you are. And when you’re done, I’m going to put a bullet in your skull. So you’d better appreciate this goodbye, brother, because you won’t be getting a better one.”

He didn’t wait for David’s response before turning the phone off completely and slipping it back into his pocket, as though he were ending a particularly unpleasant business call.

There was a heartbeat of silence before Ray exhaled heavily, rifle still leveled at the stairwell. “So, probably not the best time, considering you’re planning on murdering your brother and everything--”

“--Ray, if you tell me you’re hard, I swear to god--”

“--Okay. Another time then. You got it.”

Despite the tense, wrecked look that Michael was struggling to overpower, he cracked a smile, and Ray felt his nerves dissipate at the simple, playful banter, the reminder of  _ them. _ Michael’s smile faded quickly though, his eyes alert and his body restless as he peered up the stairwell, aching to join the fray. 

Ray sighed. “Just go. I’ll cover the armory.”

“No, I--”

“You’re going to start salivating if you stay down here. Just go, man. Pretty sure I can guard a fucking choke point.”

Michael grinned at him, pulling him close by the back of his neck like he used to, well before they’d become physical, harkening back to a time when pressing his forehead against Michael’s in solidarity was the only tangible thing that kept him alive and grounded. Michael’s skin was fire, alive and coursing with the  _ need  _ for carnage and passion, and he kissed Ray deeply on the mouth, two quick seconds of liquid flame that shot static shot through Ray’s muscles, before pulling back. 

“We’ll clear your name of this shit. You know that right? You’re still one of us.”

Ray’s heart seized at  _ us,  _ the casual mention of belonging, as though he’d always been included in their makeshift family, and he could only nod in response, overwhelmed once again by Michael’s brazen confidence. Michael held his gaze for a moment, another perfect second in time that Ray would  _ never  _ forget, before he was tearing up the staircase, shotgun back in his grip. 

The minutes that passed were borderline unbearable, and Ray heard each shout, gunshot, and resulting cry of anguish like a punch to his gut. He had no way of knowing who was alive in his crew, how many Vagos had ambushed the building, and how many were still roving the area. But worst of all was the knowledge of what a war with the Vagos would mean -- numbers against skill, twenty Vago pistols for every one of the Fakes’ rifles. This first group was only an introductory wave, and many more were likely to be on their way. 

Eventually, the gunfire ceased, and the echos upstairs became softer, the sound of muted voices rather than half-crazed screams. Slowly, Ray began to climb, recognizing Geoff’s voice and deeming the armory’s need for safeguarding a backburner concern. His rifle was heavy in his arms, burning his muscles as he kept it raised and ready, clearing the hallways as he climbed. Once he reached the second floor, he started catching glimpses of the bodies strewn across the concrete, bullet-ridden torsos that hid their tattooed skin under the red trickles of blood. Many of them were shirtless, unprotected with anything outside of a ballooned sense of self-importance, and Ray shuddered to think of what kind of armor and weapons the Vagos could start distributing to members once they had total control of the drug trade. 

A shot on the third floor startled him, and he shook himself out of his heavy thoughts to continue his climb, his heart in his throat as he heard a second shot, echoed closely by a third. He braced himself against the doorway, peeking out as much as he dared to get an eye on the shooter. 

It was Michael. He had a tear through his pant leg and was limping slightly, but if the casual way he moved were any factor, it was a shallow cut, and he was relatively unharmed. Sweat was sticking his hair against his head, and his brown leather jacket had a fine coating of dust from where he’d pressed himself against the walls to avoid fire. He was maneuvering his way carefully through bodies, sending one final precautionary round through the head of every Vago that lay haphazardly across the floor. 

“Fuck, dude,” Ray sighed, finally feeling safe enough to lower his rifle as he moved into the small foyer. “Were you gonna let me know it was clear, or what?”

Michael jerked towards him as he spoke, and there was no smile on his face. He was still jumpy, alert, and Ray felt the sick slide of apprehension curl down the back of his throat. 

“We’re not clear,” Michael explained lowly. “We can’t get an ID on Carlos. He’s the only fucker that can call this shit off, and none of these bodies are his. Geoff and Ryan are clearing the East side, but I don’t know man. Something doesn’t feel right. I don’t think we got him.”

“He could’ve run,” Ray suggested hopefully, moving more carefully into the room. He kept his eyes on the bodies below him, looking for hints of shallow breathing. He shouldered his rifle and pulled out his pistol instead, feeling his grateful muscles praise him for the change in weight.

“Maybe,” Michael agreed, but there was no heart behind it, and his face was a mask of skepticism. “Help me clear these rooms. He might have hunkered down in the range.”

Ray followed dutifully as Michael pried open the metal door to the custom range and stuffed the stopper against it to hold it open. The lights were out, casting the targets in a weird, shadowy glow from the light that creeped in through the doorway. Their silhouettes stretched across the range, amplifying the unease of the situation, and they kept their eyes trained to the far corners of the room, waiting for movement. There were only two exits -- the one they came through, and the door at the other end which led to the foyer on the East side of the building. 

“Moving up,” Ray whispered, brushing past Michael to keep his eyes on the far door. “Hit the lights when you’re ready.”

He knew Michael had nodded, despite there being no verbal declaration, and Ray held his breath, ready to fire at any movement he saw towards the East end as Michael flicked blindly at the lights. 

There was instant commotion, a scuffle, but it came from  _ behind  _ him rather than the far door, and Ray got his bearings in just enough time to hear Michael’s curse followed by the sound of the SPAS being dropped to the floor. 

“Fuck--”

But he was too late. Carlos, a clean-shaved and dark skinned man Ray knew only by the dossier on file, had a knife to Michael’s neck, hurriedly dragging Michael as far away from Ray as they could go. Michael looked half-dazed, wobbling on his feet, and Ray knew Carlos must have struck him in the head with the butt of his pistol -- the muzzle of which was now pressed hard into Michael’s lower back. With a swoop of fresh terror, Ray cursed himself for not checking the opening more thoroughly; they must have walked right past him in the darkness.

Carlos’ grin was delicious as he slid Michael’s shotgun closer with his foot and kicked it away. Michael was trying to blink his eyes back into focus, his hands immediately going to grip at the knife that was already pricking a line of red from his neck, but Carlos dug the gun further into his spine as warning and Michael stopped, holding his hands up in a swift understanding. 

Ray’s blood burned as he stared into Carlos’ tattooed face, reading in the man’s stance everything that Ray wasn’t ready to know. There was a  _ reason  _ Carlos was in charge, and a reason he hadn’t been usurped by the mass of Vagos vying for power. He knew exactly what moves to make. Normally, Michael would be able to get himself out of this situation, but he couldn’t risk jerking his head with the knife already sinking into his neck, and he couldn’t kick out Carlos’ legs beneath him with the loaded pistol against his spine. 

If the murderous look Michael shot at Ray was any indication, Michael knew he had been disabled, and Ray had never seen him emitting such a constrained, agonizing fury. 

“There,” Carlos sighed, breathing heavily into Michael’s shoulder as he recovered from the scuffle. “I don’t know why everyone is always whining about you, _ pequeño alborotador _ . You go down pretty easy, don’t you?” He shot a lascivious look at Ray before continuing, “In more ways than one, I’ve heard.” 

Michael’s eyes blazed and he struggled, foolishly, only to have the knife press further into his throat, accompanied by a “tsk” from Carlos as he shook his head. “Stop it, now, hey? You’ll just make it hurt more,  _ pendejo _ .”

Michael let out a furious growl of frustration that echoed across the range, and Ray raised his pistol as if summoned by a battle cry. “Let him go.”

“Or what?” Carlos laughed. “You’ll shoot me? That’s a hell of a risk, Brownman.”

Ray flipped the safety off on his 1911, trying to keep his breathing even. He was mortified, but he knew he couldn’t let it show. Michael had ground into him the importance of confidence, and how it could fill in the upper handed gaps Ray might not have in a situational power struggle. 

“If you know me, you know my reputation. And I’d say it’s an even bigger risk on your part. I’ve shot smaller targets than you for far less of a good reason.”

“So invested,” Carlos chastised again. “That’s a bad idea in this line of work. But Jones here knows all about that, don’t you? That little red-headed bitch… what was her name?”

Michael was quivering in anger, his face twisted in ferocity as he stood there, bound to another man’s mercy. Seeing him so restrained lit a fire in Ray’s gut, churning unpleasantly with the nauseating fear, and he couldn’t maintain the focus he had so frequently been banking on. Carlos grinned again, delighting in the misery he was extracting from the Fake’s top guns.

“I want you to know,  _ Mogar _ , how very sorry I am. Your brother, he’s, well…  _ puta de mierda _ , no? But he does pay good. And you, you and Ramsey, you have no respect for the proper gangs. You do it for  _ fun _ , and we’re trying to run a fucking business here, you see? There is no place for you.”

“Didn’t see you bitching when we were pulling jobs for you,” Michael grimaced, bracing himself as Carlos’ knife dug in when he swallowed. 

Carlos shrugged. “I got results, or you died. Either way, I was happy. But this deal with David, it is something I cannot pass up. You understand.”

Ray was bracing himself, waiting for Carlos to slide and angle his pistol just enough to get a shot in at Ray while he distracted them with a piss-poor monologue. His brain was running on overdrive, accessing his surroundings, trying to come up with  _ any  _ way to get out of this situation. He knew that if he chanced firing, he couldn’t count on something less than a headshot; anything else would still give Carlos time to put a bullet through Michael’s spine or run that blade through the thin skin on his neck. And Carlos knew it too, as he kept the majority of Ray’s prime target area hidden behind Michael’s head, making Ray’s aim futile. 

His heart was pounding, his finger adjusting his weight on the trigger as he frantically tried to figure out a solution. Before any decision could be made though, the sound of a gun being drawn cast everyone’s attention towards the doorway, where Geoff Ramsey stood with his own pistol aimed at each one of them in turn, the very image of a king storming a castle. 

Carlos moved quickly, trying to put Michael between both barrels evenly as Geoff canvassed the room, his confusion quickly turning into harsh indignation. 

“Carlos, you son of a bitch,” Geoff snarled, his torn suit jacket pulling at his arms as he crossed the threshold into the room, a man unhinged by betrayal. “I thought we were partners!”

“Ramsey!” Carlos started, trying to sound delighted, but there was a hint of panic in his speech, and Ray knew he was realizing he couldn’t stay out of both lines of sight at the same time. Just an inch too far in either direction, and he was opening himself up for either Geoff or Ray’s bullet. “Look, my friend, I know we’ve had our problems, but I’m willing to make a final deal.”

Geoff’s mustache twitched as his face ticked in anger. “Oh good, that’s exactly what I’m here to do. So here’s the deal: you call off your men, and I won’t put a bullet through your skull, how’s that?”

Carlos paused, quickly mulling over his options. Ray felt the fleeting wisps of hope as Geoff kept his gun level, believing that the arrival had all but guaranteed them a clean break. He knew that Carlos couldn’t possibly hope to dodge both of their shots, and a small fraction of tension was beginning to ease itself from Ray’s body, allowing him to regain the focus he needed to aim properly. But just as he was feeling his confidence rise, Carlos’ eyes found their way to Ray’s, and something wicked passed through his expression. 

“Fine,” he grinned. “I call off my men --  _ all  _ my men. The deal with David will be done, and we will leave your doorstep. But first, before I let your boy here go, I want what I came for.” When Geoff only stared, bewildered and unsure of how to respond, Carlos continued, his voice verging on frenetic panic. “Narvaez! I want this  _ carajo  _ dead! I want him dragged behind my car until his own mother won’t even recognize him!” He paused to take an unsteady exhale, before leveling with Geoff, desperation clinging to his words. “Just put a bullet in him right now, and all of this can be over. You have my word, Ramsey.”

Geoff hesitated, and all of Ray’s firm attempts to remain calm were shot to hell as Geoff asked, “Why do you want him dead? What did he do to you?”

Carlos scoffed, and Michael grimaced at the harsh movement, unable to react. “He’s  _ my  _ man!” Carlos spat viciously. “He’s a fucking  _ Vago _ . He’s been with us since the beginning, you stupid fucks! This takedown has been planned for  _ years _ , and he was vital in it! He’s been sending us all the information we’ve needed, all of your hits, your layout, your weaknesses, all of it. But he decided to play the fucking faggot for your rabid dog here--” He ground his pistol further into Michael’s back, and Michael hissed in pain, “--and tried to fucking bail!”

“You shut your goddamn mouth!” Ray yelled. The words surprised him, and he was out of his own body, reacting solely on the adrenaline of the situation. He was shaking, radiating a nauseating mixture of disbelief and abstract terror, topped only by debilitating anger. “It’s a fucking lie, ALL OF IT. YOU’RE FUCKING  _ LYING _ _!_ YOU TELL HIM THE GODDAMN TRUTH!”

When Carlos only grinned viciously at him, Ray’s heart continued to hammer, searching for an outlet to translate all of his anguish at being subjected to this level of deception. He turned hysterically to Geoff, who was switching his gaze between the both of them, unsure, overwhelmed. “Geoff. Listen to me.  _ Please.  _ I would never do this to you, to Michael. I would never do this to  _ anyone.  _ I worked at the gas station, I wasn’t involved in any of this, I swear to you. PLEASE!”

Geoff exhaled, and it was shaky, the only sign of a broken man. “Narvaez. Put down your weapon.”

Ray was frozen as his insides turned to steel, and he was nearly crushed under their weight. Disbelief was coursing through him, numbing everything outside of a pitiful need to deny what was happening. His legs were shaking, unable to hold him steady, and his hands were sweating so badly he was close to losing his grip. This couldn’t be happening, not after everything.  _ Please, god, no. _

“Geoff. I saved your life. Please, this crew is everything to me. You’re my family. They knew what you were afraid of and they’re using it against you --  _ please, Geoff. _ ”

He was begging, and he could hear Michael attempt to do the same before Carlos altered his grip, sending another small rivulet of blood down Michael’s neck. Geoff raised his gun at Ray, his intent clear, and Ray could feel his disorientation move through him fluidly, the waves of horror and disbelief that racked his body as he stared down the barrel of Geoff’s reckoning. He was on the verge of shock, and his body became unresponsive, ignoring the months of training he’d endured and shutting down completely the more certain he became that he was about to die. Everything was hazy, and Geoff’s voice was distant and cold as he shouted. 

“Narvaez, put down your  _ fucking  _ gun!”

Carlos was grinning in excitement, adjusting his grip on Michael to turn and watch his demands play out before him, setting his sights on Ray’s rapidly failing body, eager to see it crumple to the floor--

The shot echoed in the room, and everyone stilled as they tried to process what had happened. Then, Carlos’ body seized, his muscles clenched, and Michael took the small window of opportunity to pry the knife away from his throat and push himself sideways out of Carlos’ grasp. Carlos staggered, hands still raised on autopilot while his face bore a sagged expression of confusion, and Ray’s vision steadied enough to see the clean gap through his skull where the bullet had entered and exited. 

Ray exhaled an involuntary sob, looking down at his own shaking body. There were no wounds, no gut-shots, and no traces of blood. He was unbelievably and unmistakably  _ alive. _ He looked up to see Geoff, pistol still pointed as Carlos’ head, his eyes narrowed in objective hatred as the man he spent so many years suspecting fell forward onto his knees before smashing face first into the floor with a sickening crunch. 

“ _Geoff_ ,” Michael breathed, holding his hand to the wound on his throat. He was trembling violently, looking as upended as Ray felt. “Geoff, what the  _ fuck  _ man. Jesus Christ.”

“How did you know he was lying?” Ray asked meekly, still trying to get control over his body as he doubled over, placing his hands onto his shaking knees to avoid vomiting.

Geoff finally looked over, as if noticing them for the first time. He holstered his pistol and wiped the sweat from his hands onto his jacket casually, as though the whole incident had been a minor annoyance.

“Michael, no one in the world is going to sleep with you as part of their cover. Gross.”

“You son of a bitch,” Michael grunted, planting his ass firmly on the ground as he tried to recover from his shock. He smiled deliriously, still stunned. “You knew this whole time, you fucking animal. You  _ animal. _ ”

Ray backed up against the wall, using the cold concrete to help support himself as he watched the blood drip steadily from Carlos’ collar, still simmering in his own upheaval. “The message, the one David sent…” He paused, trying to get his breathing under control so he could force out the remainder of his sentence. “Did you even believe it? Were you  _ fucking  _ with me that whole time?”

Geoff shrugged, and Ray could read nothing from the expression. “Like I said, Ray. Everything you thought was happening, I’ve considered it, re-considered it, ate it up, shit it out, and considered it again. I know my city.”

A short silence followed that allowed Geoff to bask in his own cleverness, before Michael scoffed. “Yeah, okay, but that doesn’t answer the fucking question does it?”

Geoff hummed a laugh. “No, you fucking idiot. I’ve known you were legit for awhile now. But you can’t fault me for putting you through one last loyalty test, can you?”

“Yes!” Ray cried, still too near hysteria to keep his voice level. “Yes, I fucking can!”

“Ah, shut up. And pull yourselves together, you’re making me look bad.”

In response, Michael slumped over onto the ground with a defeated groan of pain, the biggest ‘fuck you’ he could manage at the moment, and Ray let out another unhinged giggle as he tried to will his heart rate down to normal levels. They were both still shaking wildly, trying to overpower the shock, and Ray was half afraid part of his soul had left his body with how light and flimsy he felt. 

Geoff adjusted his earpiece. “Gavvers, what’s the ETA on backup?” Ray watched as Geoff listened closely, face morphing from light concern to sheer joy. “Excellent! Who’s Lil J brought?” Another pause, before, “Oh, well he brought fucking everyone then, didn’t he? ...Alright, give me a minute.”

“How far out is the next group?” Michael mumbled into the concrete, one hand still clenched over his throat while the other wrapped around his queasy stomach. 

Geoff, surprisingly, laughed. “There won’t be another group,” he answered, holstering his pistol and moving to start checking Carlos’ body. “Now, tell me this fucker has a…” He paused, pulling out a clunky black radio from one of Carlos’ back pockets. “Ah, perfect.”

Ray, taking the casualness in the room to signify that they were out of immediate danger, let himself sink to the floor to give his unstable legs a break. He watched curiously as Geoff stood and checked the signal on the radio, his brow furrowed in the way it always did when he had to work with electronics. Finally, satisfied, he clicked on the transmitter. 

“Hello hello? Geoff Ramsey to retards, Ramsey to retards, over?”

Michael chuckled, despite himself, and Ray could feel a smile trying to overpower the tremors in his body. Geoff stood his ground, waiting irritably for a response, and it was a solid fifteen seconds before the receiver crackled to life. 

“Ramsey?” The voice was clearly uncomfortable. “This is Bojorquez.”

“Bojorquez!” Geoff exclaimed loudly, as if greeting a long-lost friend. “You’re, ah, Carlos’ second in command, is that right?”

“ _ Si _ ,” the voice responded, laced in hesitation. 

“Good news, buddy,” Geoff replied happily, kicking Carlos’s body with his foot. “You’ve just been promoted.”

The line stayed dead, and the only sound in the room was Michael’s subdued snickering from the floor. Geoff smirked at Michael’s reaction, immensely pleased with himself, before pushing down on the transmitter again. 

“Alright, I can see this is a big moment for you, very shocking. But while you’re taking your time to process this, can I offer some advice?” When no response came again, Geoff clicked his tongue impatiently, venom in his voice. “Bojorquez! Do you read?”

“I read,  _ señor _ ,” Bojorquez responded instantly, and Ray grinned at the blatant fear being transmitted over the line. He  _ really  _ shouldn’t find this funny, but with the stark relief at Michael’s release, his cleared name, and Geoff radiating a calming aura of protection, it was hard to maintain the tense dread that had tormented him earlier. 

“Excellent. So, here’s the advice: I know you’re all balls deep in charging my warehouse right now in an ill-advised attempt to overtake me and seal some kind of deal with David Jones. Now, I respect your tenacity, I really do, but here’s the kicker. You ready? David Jones is about to be a dead man.”

“Hell  _ yes, _ ” Michael mumbled in agreement, finally sitting up and tenderly pulling his hand away from the wound on his neck to check the bleeding. 

“So,” Geoff continued, “With you as the new leader of the Vagos, via your established hierarchy, you have a big boy decision to make: You can proceed with your mission, and my Fakes, along with all of our recently arrived associates, will happily kill each and every one of your men until we cut our way back to  _ you _ . And if you try to run, I will ensure that the Vagabond finds you, and I think you remember what happened to the last person I sent him after?”

An uncomfortable exhale, before, “I do,  _ señor _ .”

“Good. So here’s your second option: call this stupid fucking piss-poor attempt at asserting your authority  _ off,  _ bring all your men home  _ alive,  _ and rethink your commitment to fall in line with the footsteps of your recently deceased leader, Carlos.” Geoff sneered into the phone as he stared down at Carlos’ body. “Now, can I count on you to make the right decision?”

“Yes,” the voice on the line breathed instantly. “We will back down. The deal is off.”

“Good man,” Geoff replied, his body visibly relaxing while his voice remained hard as steel. “And if I ever see any one of your men disgrace my doorstep again, I will burn your fucking neighborhoods to the ground. Ramsey out.”

“Bit tame for you, Geoff,” Michael declared conversationally as Geoff tossed the radio carelessly onto Carlos’ body. He stood shakily, still unsteady on his legs. “You didn’t even threaten to fuck his wife.”

“Threaten?” Geoff responded indignantly. “Michael, that is a  _ gift. _ ”

Michael snorted, crossing the short distance to pick up his shotgun from where Carlos had kicked it against the wall. “Whatever, old man. I need a drink. You said Lil J’s here? I  _ know  _ that motherfucker has whisky in his car.”

Geoff’s shadow loomed over Ray as Michael spoke, holding out his dirty, tattooed hand for Ray to take. Ray did so gratefully, finally clasping hands with the man he had spent the past seven months of his life striving to impress. 

“Michael?” Geoff called quietly, keeping his eyes locked on Ray as he pulled him up from the ground. “Head on down and find Jeremy then. Let everyone know what happened, and to meet up in my office. We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, cool,” Michael replied idly, stumbling slightly from the gash in his leg. He moved past Geoff, reaching out to briefly squeeze Ray’s hand as he went, and whatever tension remained in Ray’s muscles melted at the simple contact. 

Geoff watched him exit, calling out to Michael’s retreating back. “And have Jack look over your neck!”

“I  _ got  _ it!” Michael’s voice echoed irritably in the hallway, and both Ray and Geoff smiled, knowing that Michael’s sass was only a sign of his endearment. Ray watched the door to the hallway long after Michael had disappeared through it, his thoughts preoccupied with the flurry of emotions that had escalated to unimaginable levels in just a few hours. Even though his limbs had stopped shaking, the shock was still lingering, and it took Geoff’s cracked voice to get him to focus again. 

“Hey. You alright?”

Ray tore his gaze away from the door and nodded. “Yeah. Just...fucking crazy day, you know?” He tried to chuckle, but it came out weak and empty, a blaring announcement for how  _ not  _ okay he was with coming so dangerously close to death at the hands of fabricated betrayal. Geoff must have sensed it -- the same way he was able to sense Michael’s desperation, Gavin’s intuition, the virility of Jack’s ideas, and the magnitude of Ryan’s observations -- because his voice became sympathetic. Understanding.

“Ray, look at me,” Geoff requested, laying a hand on Ray’s shoulder, not unlike a father would. “You did good, okay? Actually, fuck that, you did  _ excellent.  _ I know what it’s like, feeling like the world is against you, but you did  _ everything  _ fucking right.”

Ray shrugged noncommittally, even though his heart was in his throat at the praise. “Thanks, man. I guess I just…” He paused, before deciding there was no better time to lay all his insecurities out on the table. “I’m worried I’m too soft for all this. I don’t know what you guys know, and I fucked up so much. I don’t know if I can learn this shit.”

And there it was, the fear of being brought into something without having the portfolio to back himself up. How many more mistakes would he make? How many more times would he put them in danger by believing the deluded? How could this crew trust him, if he couldn’t trust himself to not fuck up the important things -- the life or death things?

“Hey -- listen to me,” Geoff urged, and Ray reluctantly met his eyes, burdened with self-doubt. “You’re right. Giving David a chance was stupid, letting him touch you was stupid, and that whole meeting was just one of  _ many  _ times you’ve made the wrong decision. But you  _ have  _ to make mistakes, Ray. You’ll never learn otherwise. And this crew,  _ all  _ of us, we can all teach you how to be better at reading through shit like that. But the one thing we can’t teach is loyalty, Ray. We can’t teach someone how to be apart of our family, to trust us the way we trust each other. And honestly, we got fucking lucky with you… we didn’t have to teach you  _ any  _ of that shit. You gave it to us, hands down, and that’s the most I could ever ask for from anybody. So listen to me: keep making mistakes, and keep learning, and I promise you, your crew will be here with you for  _ all  _ of it.”

Ray blinked furiously, trying to look  _ anywhere  _ but Geoff. Tears were stinging the edges of his eyes, and the last thing he wanted to do was start sniffling in front of his boss. But the moment Geoff smiled at him, he couldn’t hold in the cultivation of his emotions, the white hot terror of their earlier shoot-out, the wrenching pain of being blamed for sabotage, the agony of seeing Michael helpless with a knife at his neck, Geoff’s gun aimed so perfectly at his heart, and this pure, pacifying acceptance -- it was too much. He viciously rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

“Fuck you, man,” he choked out, half torn between sobbing and laughing. “Goddamnit.”

Geoff giggled childishly, like he hadn’t just threatened to burn down an entire neighborhood, and pulled Ray into a very welcomed hug, allowing his newest recruit to wipe the tears from his eyes and compose himself. Ray melted into it, overwhelmed with relief, overcome by the simple feeling of finally  _ belonging  _ somewhere, of being wholly understood without having it tainted by expectations he’d never be able to reach. Whatever suspicions Geoff had about him were  _ gone,  _ and they were finally on even ground, accepting one another in a way their situations had never allowed them to do. 

“Alright, come on,” Geoff said, pulling Ray away with a final squeeze of his shoulders. “I think we could all use a shot of that whisky.”

“You’re not wrong,” Ray agreed, fully composed and dry-eyed as he grabbed his pistol from the ground. 

Together, they made their way towards the stairwell, kicking Vago bodies aside as Geoff muttered sadly about the cost of a clean-up crew. They climbed down to the second floor, where voices were already echoing from Geoff’s office, happy and relieved. Jack and Gavin were still inside, with Jack keeping his eyes peeled for reinforcements on the monitors, but looking no worse for wear. Gavin was talking animatedly to Jeremy in the corner, laughing at whatever the Boston native had just gestured with wild hands. 

Ray chanced a glance at the window, where he could see a new group of cars parked next to the Vago’s old lowriders. People were pilfering around in the lot with rifles strapped to their backs -- the entirety of Jeremy’s gang, and then some -- all providing backup for the man that employed them. Geoff also peered outside, his grin widening at the impressively large collection of people Gavin and Jeremy had managed to pool together, before abandoning Ray to thank Jeremy personally. 

A few unknown people lingered, higher-ups that Ray didn’t recognize, but who greeted Geoff and Jack like old friends. Ray squeezed through them, looking for Michael, not entirely comfortable with their safety until he could feel the man’s presence next to him, grounding him. 

He found Michael sprawled out on the couch, away from the majority of the company, with a cloth around his neck and a bottle of half-gone whisky in his hand. It was an inviting picture, and Ray’s heart swelled as he left the chatter surrounding Geoff’s desk to find contentment next to Michael’s heat. Michael smiled as Ray sat beside him, and Ray relaxed into his shoulder with a groan of well-deserved comfort. Peace blossomed around them, borne from an understanding that they always carried between them, and Michael took another swig of whisky, wincing as he swallowed.

“How’s the neck?” Ray mumbled softly, content to melt into the cushions as fatigue quickly started to replace the shock. 

Michael shrugged offhandedly, as though Ray were asking about the weather. “I’ll live. Doesn’t even need stitches.”

“Good. Cause you’d look fucking retarded,” Ray mumbled into Michael’s shirt, so far past giving a  _ shit  _ what anyone thought about them. Michael laughed lightly, and curled his arm just a bit more around Ray’s shoulders, possessive and familiar. 

Minutes passed in silence that way, and Ray eventually closed his eyes, content to listen to the snatches of conversation he could pick out over the sound of Michael’s beating heart. Geoff was laughing with an old friend, asking for a contractor reference, big plans in the works, buddy. Ryan was proudly showing off his new knife for Jeremy, whose appreciative laugh carried across the room, easily overpowering everyone. He could pick out Gavin and Jack’s voices grouped with several people he didn’t know, consorting about what went down, already delving deep into allocating spotters across the road, just for precaution. 

Ray was struggling to believe the reality around him, and how his worries had been climaxed and quelled in a matter of a few short hours. He’d never felt a more apart of the crew than he did in that moment, with Geoff’s praise and acceptance still hovering hazily in his skull, inebriating his previous doubts until they felt foolish and unsubstantiated. He was  _ here,  _ as fully immersed in this life as he’d ever become, pressed up against one of the most notorious men in the West coast as though Michael thought Ray  _ deserved  _ him. His fingers ached from earlier rifle kickback, his wallet was swollen with funds, the hits on Michael would soon be over, and his fears concerning the Vagos were abated. The feeling of completion was staggering. 

For the first time since he had arrived, there was no doubt surrounding the legitimacy of his arrival. He’d  _ earned  _ his place here, and he’d proven his worth to Geoff, to the Vagos, and to any fuck that thought they could utilize Ray as a weapon against the people he loved. 

“So,” Michael drawled softly, taking another slow drink. “You love me, huh?”

Ray’s heart tightened at the statement, but it was easily soothed by the twinge of humor in Michael’s voice. He snorted lightly. 

“No, dude. That’s pretty gay.”

Michael’s chest moved as he laughed silently, and Ray couldn’t help the stupid smile that eased its way across his face. Michael was warm and promising against him, teasing words belying the severity of their conversation.

“Shame. I was hoping to take you off the market.”

Ray grinned foolishly, trying to hide his face in Michael’s shirt as best he could without being obvious. His pulse was hammering, the unspoken thing between them swelling out of its restraints, having been restricted only by their trepidation and past traumas. It was taking hold of him, turning his insides into a fluttering mess that quickened with each heartbeat he felt reverberating through Michael’s chest. He still couldn’t grasp the magnitude of what he held, the love he’d been gifted, and his entire world was bordering on the cusp of becoming a waking dream.

When Ray took too long to answer, caught up with his goddamn  _ emotions,  _ Michael continued. 

“You asked me once, to show you what it was like to be me,” he said softly, his fingertips brushing carefully across Ray’s shoulder as he spoke. “And I have. At least, I’ve shown you enough.” His fingertips stopped, and he moved his head just slightly, enough to press his lips against Ray’s hair, one gentle kiss before he continued, “You don’t belong out there, Ray, where you were. Wasting your talents in a fucking gas station. You belong here, with this crew. With me.”

Ray turned his head up just enough to silence Michael’s increasingly visceral commentary with the heavy kiss he  _ ached  _ to give everytime he caught Michael’s eyes from across the room. Michael met him willingly, letting Ray slide a hand across his cheek as he tightened his hold across Ray’s shoulders, trying to say so many words in the briefest hints of body movement. Ray swiped his tongue across Michael’s bottom lip, feeling those fingers around him tighten in interest, and he didn’t give a  _ fuck  _ who was watching them. 

Reluctantly, he pulled away, and the words that slipped from his lips were the same ones that he said so many months ago, in the moment he knew he was falling in love with Michael, in love with this  _ life,  _ and in love with who he was becoming. 

“Like I’m fucking going anywhere.”


	20. Epilogue

The gravel crunched softly under his feet, and the small plants that had grown through the cracks in the pavement wisped hopefully in the breeze, trying to innocuously shed their concrete jails to feel the grace of sun. Graffiti painted the half wall that separated a discount clothing shop from the gas station that seemed far more desolate than Ray remembered, like a child returning to an old clubhouse, only to find it abandoned and minuscule, a shadow of the thing that his imagination deemed so integral to his future. 

He glanced over his shoulder, but Michael was hidden behind the window’s deep tinting, idling in the Adder that looked alien and unwelcome in the lower tiers of society. 

_ “So, you want me to wait here then?” _

_ “Well, you did rob the guy.” _

_ “And? He shot me. I’d say we’re on pretty even fucking ground.” _

Ray hid his smile at the ghost on the conversation, taking in the sights around him, remembering the curve of the street he used to take every morning. He’d shuffled past these same cracks in the pavement, aching for the knock-off energy drink he’d be allowed to pilfer while he watched Turney and Jenkins update Los Santos on the newest high-speed chase on the gas station’s ratty and ancient TV. 

The bell of the door jingled like always, an alert for the clerk rather than a welcome for the patron, and Ray felt the soft chill of air conditioning like a step back in time, and for a moment, he feared his past, feared getting sucked into this world again as a black hole of desolation pulled against him, eager to reclaim it’s firm grip on Ray’s life. 

He shuddered through the discomfort as a familiar voice broke through the quiet air above him. That primitive TV was still running, partially decolorized and forever set on Weazel News, where the now brunette Meg Turney was already underway updating the public on the scandal that involved the newly elected mayor, David Jones. 

“...Part of former Mayor Jones’ campaign entailed a crackdown on the drug trafficking that swarms Los Santos. This background makes his charges for a conspiracy to distribute narcotics, as well as alleged links to the notorious local gang known as ‘The Vagos’, all the more shocking. Thanks to an anonymous tip and a generous package of evidence, local law enforcement placed the warrant for Jones’ arrest out last Tuesday, during which he presumably fled. Unfortunately, no sign of the former mayor has been uncovered, but due to his connections with the underground and the signs of an apparent scuffle in his apartment, officials fear the worst…”

Ray withheld his bittersweet grin. Last Tuesday had been an emotional day for Michael, no doubt, and while Ray had been worried about Michael’s commitment to the plan, he showed no hesitation as they meticulously plotted David’s fall from his poorly encaptured grace. And once they had David strapped to a chair in an abandoned church outside of Paleto Bay, Michael hadn’t wasted breath on a goodbye, content to let David scream and plead and sob for hours, begging forgiveness with one breath while cursing them all with the next until he was broken and defeated. Only then did Michael put a .44 to his head, refusing any eye contact that would give David even the smallest semblance of some fabricated regret.

Michael had removed his shackles, just as he’d promised, and David’s body was still strapped to that chair, being steadily torn apart by rats (Geoff’s idea of a fitting ending).

They had all slept easier that night. Even Michael. ...Especially Michael.

And now, it was Ray’s turn to confront his past; but hopefully, with a little more subtlety. 

“Hello, sir! How can I…  _ Ray _ _?_ Ray, my boy, is that you?”

The soft, incredulous sound of his name drew his attention to the front desk, his old station, the place he’d spent a dreary, helpless year of his life. Jo was behind the counter now, his dark eyes bright behind the aged face that had seen too much labor too early in life. A peacefulness washed over Ray at the sight of his old boss, and deep down, he was grateful just to see him alive. Running a convenience store in this city didn’t exactly guarantee someone a long, healthy lifespan, and Ray couldn’t deny he was surprised to see him still standing. 

“Hey, Jo,” Ray responded, allowing a smile to stretch across his face. “It’s me, man. Little more decked out, but it’s me.”

“Decked out?” Jo screwed his face up in confusion as he came around the counter. “What is this? What happened to you, son?” His eyes shot to the holster on Ray’s thigh. “Are you  _ carrying? _ ”

“Yeah. Part of the new job requirements. They also vetoed my light-up shoes, which is bullshit, but I need to lie low for a few months, or some crap. Apparently the quarter million dollar car isn’t a giveaway, but some light up sneakers are  _ way  _ too--”

“Ray, my boy, back up,” Jo started, looking uncomfortably alarmed. “I don’t understand -- we thought you were  _ dead.  _ You didn’t come back, didn’t answer your phone, and when the cops finally did a wellness check, they told me they had found a  _ body _ . Christ, son, I thought that was  _ you.” _

Jo looked way more shaken than Ray had prepared himself for, and his face fell at his own obliviousness. His time with the crew had given him a skewed perspective on the likelihood of his own mortality, and he’d forgotten what it was like to be on the other end of the spectrum, ignorant and defenseless. “Hey, I’m sorry man. I hadn’t thought about what you must have… Look, it was shitty of me to waltz in here like this after not contacting you for...what, a year? I’m sorry. Shit just happened so fast.”

Jo was looking him over, eyes travelling across his face, taking in his stance, sizing him up in a way that looked almost...apprehensive. 

“You are different,” he considered softly, his accent heavy and thick. “I want to ask if you’re okay, but…” He motioned vaguely to Ray’s figure. “Clearly, you are fine. What… can you tell me, what it is that happened?”

Ray hesitated, regretfully. “I can’t. Honestly, I shouldn’t even be here, talking to you, but you did so much for me when I was just scraping by, and I couldn’t deal with not letting you know how much it meant to me. And I wanted… well, I wanted to bring you a gift.”

He dug a small packet of business cards out of his hoodie pocket, freshly printed and nearly pristine. His crew logo shined back at him in highly rendered gloss, a bright, poisonous green accented with blocked white script and a heavy black background. He turned them between his fingers, considering. 

“How’s Nadia?” He asked, remembering the long black curls of Jo’s wife, the way she mothered him when she came to clean the store every other morning.

“She’s well,” Jo responded carefully, and Ray felt that distinctive curve of disassociation. Jo had never spoken to him this way before. They used to have a rapport, a casual friendship that had easily evolved from the manager and employee relationship they shared. But now, Jo was nervous, unsure of what to make of the creature in front of him. 

Ray looked up towards the mirror in the corner, placed strategically to keep eyes on potential shoplifters -- the same mirror he’d looked into hundreds of times before. But there was no ragged kid staring back at him, a dead expression to match an inner ennui that plagued his existence. Now, there was  _ someone  _ in that reflection. A man whose eyes were bright with keen interest and observations, playful and alert in ways he could never recall feeling. His clothes were expensive, newer things to replace the old, but he retained his individuality, letting his checkered Vans and beanies harken back as a reminder of his beginnings, rather than a dismal attempt to shelter himself from the world. He looked in that mirror and found a man to be respected, a man to be feared. A man who knew  _ exactly  _ who he was. 

He broke the gaze and looked back to his former boss, a man who was keenly aware that he’d never be giving Ray another order again. A man who knew someone  _ important  _ had just entered his shop, and there was a wariness that accompanied the concern. Their pedestals had changed, and part of Ray was still reeling at how much he could portray by saying so little. At how much this life had truly changed him.

“Ray. Are you alright?”

Ray jerked slightly in surprised, torn from his observations, and smiled. “Yeah, man. I’m….great. Really. Here.” He held out the small stack of cards, and Jo hesitated for only a moment before accepting them, turning them over as Ray continued, nonchalant. “Put them up where they can’t be missed. Doorway is good, couple of the windows, up here on the counter definitely--”

“Oh,” Jo interrupted, his eyes widening as he took in the lettering across the card. “My god, Ray--”

“--Look, it’s fine, okay? Everything is fine.”

“--You are  _ one  _ of these men? They are  _ legends _ , Ray, I cannot--”

“Look,” Ray said, a little louder than necessary, and Jo quieted. “I know it’s hard to swallow, but hear me out. You and Nadia, I owe you so much. You two took care of me, and I don’t even think you realized it. Please, just take the cards. They’ll deter any stickups, and everyone that sees them on your window will know that this station and the people inside are under our protection.”

Jo’s fingers were shaking slightly, and Ray put his hands on the man’s shoulders to calm him long enough for Jo to speak his mind. 

“Ray, son, I can’t pay protection money.”

Ray pulled a face. “God, Jo, no. No, it’s not like that. I just want you to be safe. Please.” He paused for a moment, considering his own reasoning, before admitting softly. “This is my way of letting go, and saying goodbye. To everything.”

Jo studied him carefully, pulled back from his own worries at Ray’s admission of vulnerability, and nodded. “Okay. Then, I thank you.”

Ray smiled and pulled away, giving Jo one final pat on the shoulder. “I have to go man. Put those cards up, I mean it.”

He moved back towards the door, taking his final steps out of the gas station that helped paved the way to the miraculous, happenchance meeting that changed the entire order of his life. As the jingle of the door chimed brightly above him, Jo called out, pausing Ray’s final steps. 

“Ray, wait. Are you okay?” He paused, fingering the cards in his hands and looking decidedly uncomfortable. “I mean to ask… are you happy?”

Ray’s mind flashed with the question, a montage of the things he had created for himself, the things he had been given, and the things he had  _ taken.  _ The apartment he shared with Michael, with stunning views of the city that he now helped control. Their newly refurbished warehouse, the charts across the wall, Jack mumbling directions into a headset as Ray turned his car steadily, his rifle in the passenger seat. The feel of kickback in his shoulder, the smell of smoke and weed and  _ fire  _ all compiling to give way to the images of Michael in his head, laughing at Geoff’s table, his chair tilted back, screaming vulgarities as he fired at an officer, shucking off his shirt after a heist and crowding Ray against the door.

Ray grinned. “Yeah. I can’t live without it.”

Before Jo could respond, Ray was out the door, letting the air of Los Santos pull him back in, ridding him of the shackles of his previous life that were pulling at his insides, trying to remind him of his fragility. He slid into the car easily to find Michael stretched back in his seat, tapping his hands rhythmically to the song playing lowly on the speakers. His neck was bared, and Ray could still see the angry red mark across the skin there, the slowly healing scar from Carlos’ blade. 

Without warning, Ray leaned over and kissed him, running his hands up the hard planes of Michael’s chest and arms. Michael hummed curiously, but allowed himself to be taken, pulling Ray as close to him as possible in their limited space. Ray milked the moment as long as he could, tasting Michael beneath him, the barest hint of Red Bull and the smell of fire and plastic from the explosives he’d been making earlier in the day. After all the times they’d done this, Michael still responded beautifully, nipping at Ray’s lower lip to antagonize him, a stunt that had made them late for far too many dates, gripping Ray’s hips possessively in a way that made Ray weak. 

Reluctantly, he pulled away, and Michael chased his retreat for a moment before dropping his head back against the seat behind him. “What was that for?”

Ray shrugged, still caught in his moment of detachment, still hung up on the disbelief that he’d wound up where he was from such dismal, humble beginnings. “Just wanted to say thanks. You know, for robbing me, threatening to kill me, and essentially forcing me into initiation. You really know how to show a guy a good time.”

Michael scoffed, sitting up fully to shift out of park. “You’ll get tired of that, one day,” he mussed. “Did what you came here to do? Ready to move on?”

Ray placed his hand over Michael’s on the stick, gently disengaging him from pulling away from the curb. His heart was beating quickly at what he intended to do, but he powered through the timid uncertainty that was begging to make itself known. “I am, sure. Are you?”

As expected, Michael narrowed his eyes at him, ever annoyed at being put on the spot. He shifted back into park with a little more flair than necessary. “Meaning?”

Ray opened the glove box, pulling a small picture frame from where he had hidden it earlier. He held it away from Michael for a moment, hesitating. “Now, don’t be mad at me for knicking the picture. I had to make a copy of it to get it professionally redone, and I swear, I put it back, like, right away.”

Michael’s expression had morphed into an unsure curiosity, and he took the frame gently as Ray held it out, bitchy attitude all but sapped from him at Ray’s solemn posture. Ray watched, his heart bittersweet, as Michael quickly realized what Ray had done. His face softened, the only sign of his surprise outside of the soft exhale as he ran his fingers across the photo that had been painstakingly and exquisitely restored. 

“We should hang that up,” Ray offered softly, trying to maintain a comfortable atmosphere as he watched Michael trace a finger down Lindsay’s face. “Remember the good times, you know?”

Michael didn’t answer immediately, but Ray had prepared himself for that. He knew he was banking on Michael’s sentimental side, and was secretly praying that Michael was as ready to move on with his life as Ray was. It felt right, giving him this outside of the very place their lives had changed, and part of him knew that if he didn’t do it now, this perfect moment would pass them by, and he’d regret it forever. 

To his surprise, Michael smiled, his eyes searching every inch of the photo as if seeing it for the first time. The change was startling, as the last time Ray had seen him holding the folded, scratched version of this picture, his eyes had blazed in hatred and guilt, still swimming in his disconnection, still failing to realize he hadn’t made his peace. 

But now, as Michael looked down at the photo of his past, the only proof of the life he’d had before, he wasn’t seeing his mistakes, his anger, or the last remaining fragment of a time he’d been happy. Now, he smiled at the love he’d been gifted, the memory of a beautiful woman who shared part of his life and helped shape his story, and Ray could nearly feel Michael’s weight being lifted from his shoulders. 

He had let go.

“Above the fireplace is a good spot,” Michael said into the silence, his voice cracking just slightly. “I, um… thank you.”

There were a million words moulded into that thank you, and Ray could read each and every one of them.  _ Thank you for accepting me. Thank you for bringing her back. I don’t want to live like that anymore. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for understanding. I love you. _

Michael leaned over and kissed Ray gently, running his scarred fingers through the bits of hair that stuck out of Ray’s beanie. It was soft, far more tender than he could have ever given Michael credit for, and he kissed back lightly, forever hung up on the feeling of Michael’s heat against him, the taste of his skin, the pulse that so diligently matched his own. 

They pulled away only for breath, with Michael resting his forehead against Ray’s to remain close, a personal, symbolic motion that meant as much to them as any physical connection ever could. Michael’s eyes were shut, breathing in the moment that was threatening to topple him, and Ray was staggered by how young he looked, the sun reflecting off of auburn curls that leveled out into beautiful, freckled skin. 

Ray felt that familiar jolt in his heart, the same one he felt every morning when he woke up next to the man he loved, the same one he felt when he quietly watched Michael shake the very foundations of his world by simply existing. He would forever be enraptured by Michael, and nothing would keep him from spending the rest of his life wound around the one thing that had finally made it worth living. 

He would stay with him, whatever happened.

“Come on,” Ray said gently, pulling the frame from Michael’s fingers so he could shift back into gear. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
